


Heroes of Thedas: Chasing Shadows

by captain_othersider



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Character Death, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-09-07 07:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 46,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_othersider/pseuds/captain_othersider
Summary: Will Trevelyan has been a member of the Thedas Superhero Association for a year now, protecting civilians and making a name for himself as "Shining Shield". Several months after his biggest mission yet - the assault on Dumat Labs and the defeat of its founder Corypheus, - he is suddenly tasked with capturing a fellow Association hero gone rogue. This mission will send him down a rabbit hole of secrets never meant for his eyes and grudges started long before his time; will he know who to trust, and, working together with the rising star hero Lightning, will he manage to chase down his target?





	1. Shining Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Trevelyan and Iseran Tasefa belong to Annyfire(@keeperscompanionsdai on tumblr)  
> Das Davarris belongs to Meisiluosi(@heraldofwho on tumblr)

It all starts with a family dinner - a terrible one.

The room is tense and silent, no sound made besides the clinking of cutlery against plates. It's so quiet that Will can hear the cars pass by outside.  
A good few minutes pass, before his father clears his throat and says:

"We're glad to have you here, Evelyn."

On the other side of the table, Will's cousin responds with a polite smile.

"Thank you for letting me stay here for the week. It's very kind of you."

The light reflects from her blue eyes and glints on the delicate metallic choker around her neck. Her hair is styled in flawless waves, and not even a single crumb falls from her plate. Everything about Evelyn is perfect, which makes her all the more annoying.

 _You wouldn't be so full of yourself if you knew why you're really here,_ Will thinks. _The single reason both of us are tolerated here is because they think you will be a "positive influence" on me. That being around you will somehow make me go back on every single choice I've made this year._ _  
_

"I hope I'm not much of a bother," she adds.

"Oh, don't you worry about it," Will's father responds, but his ice-cold gaze is locked onto Will for some reason. _That can't be good,_ he thinks, and frowns back. His father continues:

"We have a vacant room, as for recent. It's nice to have someone stay in it again."

"That's right!..." Now the blue eyes turn to Will as well. "...Thanks for letting me stay in your room, William. It's... really nice."

"No problem at all," he replies flatly. "Especially because no one ever asked me about it."

They all act like he hasn't said anything, though his father's stare cuts even deeper and the frown lines around his mouth deepen.

Suddenly, a vibrating sound cuts the silence; Evelyn takes out her phone with an apologetic look. That would have earned him a couple of disappointed stares, but _she_ , of course, gets a pass.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, getting up. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I completely forgot! I promised my girlfriend to meet her at the airport. It's completely my bad, but - I have to go. I apologize."

"Don't worry, Evelyn," his mother says softly. "That's alright. Do you need a ride to the airport?"

Will nearly chokes. _Girlfriend!..._ And look how calm his parents are. Of course, it only matters when it comes to him, doesn't it?  
Well, another reason to avoid his cousin as much as possible until the week ends.

"No, it's fine. Thank you for the offer," Evelyn shines one last sickening smile before hurriedly exiting the room. Once she's gone, his father says quietly, voice vibrating with anger:

"William Sebastian Trevelyan. What do you think you're -"

Will doesn't wait for him to finish:

"You gave her my room! Without even asking me!"

He looks over to his mother; she meets his eyes sadly. Somehow, her not saying anything feels more like a betrayal than anything else about this situation.  
Underneath his sleeve, a digital watch lights up and vibrates once, then twice in a quick succession.

"I, um, I have to go." He gets up as well. "Sorry. Tell Evelyn it was lovely to meet her, and all that. Bye."

His father's voice follows him out of the room, but Will doesn't pay attention to his words. Once he's out of sight, he starts running, and the apartment door slams shut behind him.

 

He drives to a back alley and locks the car doors, then pulls a red and yellow package from under the seat. He presses a button under the wheel, and a woman's face appears on the windshield, while Will begins to unwrap the package.

"What's the situation, Seeker?" he asks, pulling his shirt off. The hologram makes a disgusted sound.

"You intend to listen to my briefing while changing?"

"Just tell me already!" he huffs, pulling the uniform on.

"...As you wish. The Association has initiated an operation in your district. Your help is required. The coordinates are already on your portable communicator."

On the passenger seat, his watch vibrates twice, similar to the vibration that has alerted him in the first place. Will puts it back on; a tap of his finger, and the glowing digits change into a miniature map of the city with the location marked on it.

"Got it. So, who are we fighting?"

There's a moment's pause.

"A representative of the Association will be waiting for you on site. He will explain all the details."

“Maker damn it..." These jobs are the worst. Punching bad guys is hard enough, but doing it with some prick looking over your shoulder the whole time? "...Whatever. Anything for justice,” Will salutes the hologram mockingly, pulls the mask onto his face and with a flick of a switch unlocks a secret compartment, where his weapon awaits: a bronze-colored metallic shield.

"Ready to move out, Seeker."

"Hurry." Another pause. "Good luck on your mission, Shining Shield."

The hologram fades.

  
A few minutes later, he climbs into the back of a large van parked outside the Viscount Bank. The building is surrounded by police cars, and a crowd had gathered outside that ring by now.

A flash of familiar light blinds him for a moment.

"Lightning!" Will gasps, covering his eyes, "I didn't know you were in town!"

"Shining Shield," Lightning greets him. Her voice sounds like thunder, if thunder was soft and gracious. Her whole body is made out of energy, only barely stabilized by her skin tight blue suit; the air hums and distorts around her. She holds out a gloved hand. "Last summer, the assault on Dumat Labs?"

"Damn right," he smiles and shakes her hand. Static electricity immediately stings his arm.

"A pleasure to be working together again," Lightning replies with a slight smile of her own.

"Will Jenny be joining us?" Will asks, trying not to sound overexcited.

"She will be, later."

"...Jenny? This is ridiculous!" an unfamiliar voice exclaims; only now Will notices a male figure sitting behind Lightning, almost completely obscured by her. The stranger stands up:

"Why haven't you informed me? Why didn't she show up for the briefing?"

Lightning shrugs apologetically:

“She’s a force of nature… And, technically, not an Association hero. She’s not obligated to show up.”

The man scoffs.

"Well, if she _will_ be joining us, tell her to hurry," he says. "We haven't much time."

He steps forward, finally allowing Will to make out his features: quite handsome, sharp features, tan skin, groomed moustache. The Association's badge glints on the belt of his spotless costume.

"Agent Pavus, representative of the Thedas Superhero Association. Welcome aboard,” he greets Will. "...You were a last minute addition. We have a hostage situation on our hands, and I've been informed you are quite proficient in rescue operations."

"You can count on me," Will nods. "Who will I be rescuing?"

"The captor."

He stares at the agent. 

" _...Who?_ "

With a sigh, Pavus gestures to the screens on the wall - displays from security cameras inside the bank. Most show humanlike figures with glowing green eyes pacing through the halls, their bodies dark and wispy, as though made out of smoke. One camera is pointed to several of these figures surrounding a group of scared employees.

"This... is the doing of the hero you probably know as A Thousand Shadows."

_Hero?_

For a second Will thinks he misheard, but then Lightning adds:

"I've worked with him. Not exactly the bank-robbing type, if you ask me, which is... strange."

"I would agree,” Pavus says. The agent glances at the monitors, and Will notes to himself the bitter expression that crosses his face; pobably some personal matter involved here as well.

Why in the Void is a superhero robbing a bank?

"...However, this is exactly what he did," the agent continues. "Reportedly, A Thousand Shadows - Shadow for short - entered the building an hour ago and declared it is under his protection, then demanded access to the vault and the bank cells. The staff requested an explanation, and, as you can see... Matters escalated. The Association insists Shadow must be captured alive and interrogated. Your role is to ensure that happens."

"How many civilians inside?" Will asks, frowning.

"Twenty, all staff," Agent Pavus replies. "He released the customers."

"I'll enter from the front and give them a little show," Lightning winks. "While he's distracted, Jenny will get you in. Take Shadow out, and we don't have to worry about his minions."

"Do note that he is looking for something," the agent adds. "We need to know what that is. Find out what you can."

Will whistles:

"Interrogation? Are you guys sure you're not looking for Mindreader or someone like that? I'm just a guy who hits things with his shield."

"Mindreader," Pavus replies sharply, "Would not achieve much if Shadow is under the effect mind control. Which is a likely possibility."

"Mind control? Then..." Will looks at Lightning. That would definitely explain Shadow’s strange behavior - but there is another, more worrying implication behind this statement. "...Do you think that Corypheus is still - that he could somehow... Is that why _we_ , of all people, are here?"

Suddenly, it's very quiet inside the van, only the hum of Lightning's power disturbing the air. 

"We don't know," she says, finally. "But if it's true, then we're the best people to deal with it."

  
They approach the bank, equipped with earpieces for communication; Lightning instructs Will to wait at the eastern wall, and walks off. 

"Game on," her voice comes through his earpiece, as he starts making his way towards his position. 

"Kick his ass, Shiny!" cheers in return a voice that can only belong to Red Jenny, Lightning's faithful companion.

Where… where did she get an earpiece?

A moment later, Will hears Lightning call out:

"Hey, Shadow! Do you remember me? I’m here to talk!"

He catches a glimpse of her glowing figure before she disappears from his line of sight - and then hears the wide doors swing open and close again behind her.

Upon reaching his position, he discovers an arrow with a red fletching stuck in the wall: Jenny's greeting. Looking up, Will sees a whole line of identical arrows leading to the top of the building. To the roof, then...

Reluctantly, he puts his foot on the lowest arrow, testing the weight. It doesn't break - Jenny's arrows pierce through metal and concrete without a problem, - but still, it's better to check. She _has_ put one wooden arrow in a sequence like that before.

Will reaches for the next arrow and starts climbing.

 


	2. Shadow

Four shadows greet Lightning in the hall, featureless but similar to the original Shadow in their build; their silhouettes retain the outline of his costume, built for stealth, complete with a hood and a mask - as well as a generous amount of knives, she would imagine. Their glowing eyes all stare at her, unblinking. 

She stares back.

"Hi there," she says. There's no response.

"Shadow, can you hear me?" 

If he can, he doesn't bother to let her know. She hesitates for a moment, and tries again:

"...Neilar?"

Silence. She takes a step forward, and the shadows' eyes follow her every movement.

"Well... In case you don't remember, I'm Lightning. We work together sometimes... Well, quite a lot, actually. Taking down the Magister? Corypheus? False Red Knight? Does any of this ring a bell?"

Lightning pauses, waiting for an answer. Nothing, still.

"Dorian's here too," she says. "Do you remember Dorian? We've been searching for you. Where were you?"

A hissing noise sounds behind her back; she spins around only to find four more shadows cutting her off from the exit. They step towards her; Lightning readies herself for a fight, but they stop - and then, one shadow speaks.

"Hello, Lightning," it says, its voice a distorted imitation of its creator. "I'm glad you're here."

Lightning's eyes narrow:

"...You do remember me."

"I do," the figure nods. "And I need your help."

  
On the roof, Will is greeted by a wide grin under a red feathery mask.

"Shield guy! Thought you fell down for a second," Red Jenny tells him.

"Good to see you too, Jenny," he smiles. "Thanks for making them all real arrows this time."

She giggles.

"Ooh, that was a good one. Shame it only works once; you all get too careful after."

"So..." Will looks around. "You'll get me to Shadow?"

"Yeah." The smile fades from her face. "The bad guy. I mean, he _was_ a good guy, but _now_   he's all bad. Right? He's on the top floor, I'll get you in."

She falls silent for a moment, then asks:

"Are you there to kill him?"

"What? - no, no," Will shakes his head. "It's a rescue mission."

"Rescue mission my arse," Jenny mumbles and walks to the edge of the roof. Will follows.

"...Hop through this window," she points, "I opened the vent for you there. Go left, left, right, then down and right, and - "

Jenny notices the focused look on Will's face as he tries to remember the directions.

" - Or you know what, just crawl towards the sound of evil monologuing," she says. "I bet he's already giving a speech to Shiny down there." Her nose scrunches up. "...Go beat him up. I'll be on the ground floor dealing with the people who _actually_ need saving."

"Got it," Will nods. "...Thanks, Jenny."

"Don't die," she pats him on the shoulder, and in a flash of red tunic and yellow-black tights backflips off the roof; Will blinks, and she's gone.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, go over everything first Agent Pavus and then Jenny have told him; it's not much information, but these facts outline a pretty clear course of action for him: get in, grab the target, get out. It's clearly not _everything_   there is to the operation unfolding, but it's no wonder he hasn't been told the rest; he's a smaller-scale hero brought in for support, just because he has some experience with Corypheus' methods and it just so happens to be his area.

Get in, grab Shadow, get out.

He swings himself down from the rootfop and through the window Jenny pointed out; it leads into a small, office-type room, and it doesn't take long to notice the wide open ventilation shaft. Will his shield even fit in there?...

He sighs. Only one way to find out. _  
_

"Left, left, right..." Will mumbles as he pulls himself up.

  
The shadows walk Lightning through the main hall, past the hostages; all of them turn to look at her as she enters the room. Some whisper her name. She winks at them, flashing a reassuring smile; the shadows don't spare even a glance. _Jenny will get to you soon enough,_ Lightning promises the hostages silently.

Whatever it is that Neilar… that Shadow is planning, surely there's no need for him to hurt these people.

As they walk away, she asks quietly:

"...Why do you need them?"

"To get your attention," one of the shadows croaks. "And to open doors for me. They failed to do the latter - but you'll make up for that."

They pass a few doors, each unlocked with a security code the shadows appear to already know; soon, they're faced with a stairway leading down into what she can only assume is the vault.

"Inside the vault, there is a safe which can only be unlocked by its owner," a shadow says, confirming her suspicions. "...The problem is, the owner is dead. I need you to tear it apart with your powers."

"What's inside?" she asks.

"Technology."

"And you're not worried I'll tear it apart along with the safe?"

"No. Unlike the safe, the device inside was made to last."

The stairs end, presenting them with a view of the vault's door, already open and awaiting visitors. Six more shadows stand inside the reinforced room.

"This is impressive," Lightning murmurs. "Four with me, six down here, and at least a dozen more up with the hostages. Your limit's a thousand a day, but I've never seen you summon more than ten at once."

"I've had some help."

"...From Corypheus?"

As the name rings inside the otherwise silent chamber, her gaze locks onto the safe: a polygonal shell of steel, complete with all kinds of sensors and a familiar logo on its door - a crimson dragon taking flight, stamped with two words underneath: _Dumat Labs._

"It is him!" Lightning whispers furiously. "Corypheus!... What did he do to you?!"

"Weren’t you listening?" one of the shadows behind her back hisses. "The owner of the safe is _dead_. Corypheus was a copycat and a thief, and he's gone for good. Now open it, or I'll start butchering those people upstairs one by one."

Time, she needs more time. Can't be more than a few minutes until Will finds his way to the real Shadow.

She turns to the figure that has just spoken:

"Don't touch them! I'll do it, I swear. I'll do anything."

"Then _do it._ "

"I… I have one last question for you."

The shadow's glowing eyes narrow upon hearing her words. "Which is?"

"Why did you call Corypheus a thief?"

"I called him a thief because he was - " the shadow starts, but its voice dies down mid-sentence, as the glow in its eyes weakens. It freezes in place for a moment, then jolts back to life, and says mechanically:

"...Open the safe." A second of silence, then again, with the exact same intonation, "Open the safe. Open the safe."

She looks around - none of the inhuman eyes staring at her are glowing as brightly as before. Something forced Shadow to put his minions on autopilot.  
The figure closest to her draws a blade made out of smoky darkness, and so do the others.

"Open the safe." It takes a step forward. "Open the safe."

Lightning raises her hands up, takes a small step back.

"Alright, alright." She turns away, facing the safe. "I will."

The shadows watch as her form shines and distorts, arcs of electricity dancing between her fingers.

Then, Lightning strikes - and her target is not the safe at all.

 

Jenny was right; just a few moments of crawling through the narrow metallic space, and Will starts to pick up a faint male voice coming from below. As he follows the path Jenny described, trying to keep track of the turns, it becomes more and more clear, until eventually Will finds himself on the other side of a ventilation grid, looking into a dimly lit - and seemingly empty - windowless room.

“...A copycat and a thief...” The voice sounds like it’s right before him. Why can’t he see anyone? “...And he’s gone for good. Now, open the safe, or I’ll start butchering those people upstairs one by one.”

Will clenches his fists.  That’s definitely Shadow.

The lone lamp inside the room flickers, and in this brief moment he finally notices a silhouette leaning against one of the shelves - a fairly short figure, wrapped in black from head to toe. No wonder Will couldn’t see him in this light.

Shadow lets out an irritated sigh.

“Weren’t you listening?” he asks the empty room.

 _Was he talking to me?  -_ a frantic thought crosses Will's mind; he tenses up, but then Shadow speaks again:

“Then _do it!_ ”

Will breathes out in relief, quietly. Not to him. Good... Not that it matters much, though, because he’s about to make his presence known anyway. 

Slowly, he reaches for the grid, curls his fingers around the bars and pushes. The metal grid immediately slips from its place; Jenny’s work, no doubt. It's a few moments of awkward struggling until he sets the grid down and wriggles his way out of the shaft - but Shadow doesn’t seem to notice any of the movement, still immersed in his one-sided conversation.

Finally, Will jumps down, shield in hand. The moment his feet hit the floor, Shadow’s voice halts mid-sentence; as he starts to turn, Will brings his shield forward, but it's little help. Shadow’s eyes flash with green and an impact comes from behind, sending Will flying face-first to the ground; the shield is kicked out of his hand as he hits the floor.

Groaning, Will rolls onto his back; he doesn't have a chance to push himself back up. His vision goes dark, as an unseen force presses him against the floor with what feels like several pairs of hands; then, four pairs of green lights blink at him from above, and Will realizes that the pressure is, in fact, the hands of four shadows holding him down.

The lamplight dims again, and the shadows’ outlines disappear from his view, revealing a fifth, way more solid figure standing above him. Between a black hood and a half-mask covering the bottom half of his face, the only visible part of Shadow - the real Shadow - are the eyes, sunken and glowing faintly with green. They meet Will’s gaze, and he feels dizzy for some reason; dark spots are still dancing before his eyes from the bright flashes of light inside a dark room.

Shadow steps forward and kneels right next to him, not breaking eye contact even for a second. Will wriggles nervously; sure, people with multiple powers don't exist, but... what if whatever's controlling this guy can hypnotize _him_ through his eyes?

He twists his wrist, trying to reach a hidden button on his glove. Here, almost… But the damn shadows are strong, and his finger keeps slipping.

“Shining Shield, right?” Shadow asks, reaching a hand for Will's face; he shakes it off before it finds purchase on the edge of his mask.

The green eyes narrow.

“...I didn’t think they would bring you. Thought it would be Jenny coming for me. Where is she? Freeing the captives? Doesn’t matter. I don’t really need them anymore. In a moment, I’ll have what I need, and then - ”

“You know,” Will pants, “For a mind-controlled minion you sure are talkative.”

“Oh, is that what they tell you?” Shadow laughs flatly. “Now it makes sense why Lightning asked me about Corypheus.”

He stands up, turning around - and at this very moment the building shakes, as a distant rumbling sounds from below. Lightning!  It’s as if she heard Shadow say her name.

Shadow freezes in place suddenly, and in this moment of distraction Will feels the wispy hands' grasp weaken just enough for him to finally reach the button. The shield flies to his hand; he uses the momentum to pull himself up and sends the sharp edge of his shield in a wipe swipe towards the shadows, scattering them into clouds of smoke. Will spins around, aiming the next strike at Shadow - but he's already recovered from whatever starled him so, slinking out of the way and leaving a clone behind to take the blow in his stead. Shadow sends another one from behind - but this time Will sees it coming, and sends the shield flying around the room; it demolishes the copy and carves deep lines into the walls, breaking shelves in half and narrowly missing Shadow himself.

Will catches the shield and lunges at his opponent, slashing through clone after clone. Smoke and blinking green eyes is all he sees, until something hits him in the shoulder and his shield arm goes limp. Will stumbles back, reaching for his arm and feeling metal sticking from it; his fingers wrap around the knife as Shadow pulls it out, slashing Will’s palm. He hisses in pain and lunges forward in an attempt to catch Shadow; two clones throw themselves at him, and his attention switches to getting rid of them instead. Will slams one shadow into the wall, grabs the shield with his functioning arm and jams it into the door - only to catch a glimpse of Shadow darting towards the vent.

He pushes the remaining clone away and in two leaps closes the gap between him and Shadow. Will slams into him, dragging him back down with his weight. They fall to the floor, struggling; another blade sinks into Will’s leg, but the pain is not enough for him to let go.

“Just give up,” Will growls.

“You - don’t - understand,” Shadow hisses, and draws a sharp breath; suddenly he’s much larger- no, suddenly Will is trying to hold in place not one, but two, three, four people. His grip breaks and he falls back, but neither the shadows nor his real opponent come after him; instead, the shadows keep multiplying and filling the room.

Will stumbles to his feet and sees, in their midst, Shadow curled out on the ground, shuddering as new copies keep emerging around him. The figures collide with each other, turning into a suffocating dark mass of limbs and glowing dots. Will tries to push through the ocean of ghostly bodies and get to his shield, but there are way too many and his movements are slow. They now appear on top of each other, obscuring whatever little light was in the room to begin with.

Head spinning, he suddenly becomes aware of the hot blood soaking through his costume. His knees threaten to fold. Will breathes in, trying to get as much air as he can, and yells from within the darkness:

“Lightning! Jenny!... Anyone!”

 


	3. Recovery

Over an hour later, Will is escorted to the exit of the local Association base by two junior agents. His costume and shield rest safely inside a backpack on his back, his car, which he left two streets from here, awaits in the building’s parking lot. Will stops at the door for a moment, staring at the night street outside. Here, just one step separates Shining Shield and William Trevelyan. It’s silly, he knows, Shining Shield lives within his heart and not in this building, but still - there is some weight to stepping outside and suddenly turning from a faceless legend to a nobody, like waking up from a deep sleep.

He takes a deep breath and steps forward. As he does, Will hears the doors close behind him, and makes a point of not looking back as he walks away.

He climbs into his car, locks the doors, then sets his backpack on the passenger seat and leans back in the driver’s seat, closing his eyes. The only sound that remains is his own heartbeat; as Will grows used to the silence, the faint at first pulse sounds louder and louder in his ears.  
Suddenly, the darkness becomes suffocating; he tries to open his eyes, but realizes they’re already open. Will tries to breathe in, to move, but there’s no room - countless black figures surround him, writhing and crawling on top of each other, struggling aimlessly and dissolving into smoke only to have their place be taken by others. This smoke is all that Will smells now, a bitter, herbal scent that fills his lungs and sticks to them like tar. All he hears is his own pulse, louder and louder until it’s the only thing that exists anymore. Boom, boom, boom.   
Then, the pulses turn into explosions.   
Bright flashes of light tear into the darkness and demolish the figures, making room for Will to breathe, to move. The bitter scent turns metallic.   
He falls onto his hands and knees, gasping and coughing, and looks up with teary eyes to see Lightning's glowing figure standing in the doorway. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, wipes the tears with his hand - wait, why is there no glove on it?... Wait.   
That’s not Lightning. That’s a street light. And he is sitting inside his car, in the parking lot.   
The only real thing is his heart still pounding in his ears.

Will sits still for a few moments, staring at the light until it burns itself into his vision as a black dot which Will tries to blink away - to no appeal. He rubs his face until his eyes start tearing up again, then shakes his head until his vision gets blurry, trying to recalibrate his senses. Then he hears his phone vibrate inside his backpack, and reaches for it.

As soon as Will unblocks his phone, the screen is flooded with messages. It takes his eyes a few moments to focus on the text, but he doesn’t need to see clearly to know all of them are probably from his mother. He blinks once more, and his vision returns to normal.

**_44 unread messages from: Mom_ **

**_1 missed calls from: Mom_ **

**_1 unread message from: Father_ **

Will’s finger hovers over the notifications for a few seconds. Whose messages does he want to read first? Does he want to read any of them at all?

Finally, he taps his mother’s profile icon, which takes him to a whole string of commentary regarding today’s dinner - **_I told your father we should have consulted you before inviting Evelyn over and he agreed, would you please talk to him about this_ **\- that gradually turns into sole question marks with the occasional ”Where are you?” and “Is everything alright?” mixed in. Will taps the entry field, and feels a lump in his throat. What can he say?

_It’s alright, I left before he kicked me out anyway._

_Sorry Mom, I was fighting a rogue superhero and his clones so I left my phone in the car._

_I almost got suffocated to death by a bunch of shadow people and it was really scary, I’m sorry I ran off like that, can I come over?_

Every single one of those is terrible. He types a single “Sorry”, then erases it and taps away without sending anything, feeling horrible.

His father’s message consists of three phrases:

**_Evelyn returned. She said she’s not angry with you. Consider yourself lucky._ **

Will doesn’t even bother with thinking of a reply. He swipes to his contact list and taps the name at the top without even looking; the motion is as familiar as breathing, and somewhat comforting.

**_User status: Online_ **

_hello there, beautiful,_ he types. _are you_ _busy?_

The reply comes a few seconds later, which feels like eternity.

**_Hello, Will. You may come over, if this is what you are asking._ **

And then, almost immediately:

**_Are you hurt?_ **

_not today. ;D I’ll drop by in 5 minutes. how bout that?_

A few more seconds pass.

**_I’ll make some tea._ **

**_< 3_ **

A smile spreads across Will’s face. He sends a few hearts into the chat as well, before putting the phone away and starting to look for his keys. The dull pain of fatigue and stitched-up wounds catches up with him again, and so does the itching from wearing the costume for a long time. Will glances at the rearview mirror and sees his own face, still red and irritated where he was wearing the mask, the disheveled sweat-soaked hair and clothes. He grabs the phone again, and types:

_20 minutes!!_

Probably should take a shower first.

 

“...Then they told us to stay in the city in case they need us again, and asked me to leave, so I did.”

“And here you are.” Iseran sets a teacup in front of Will. He reaches to take it, but the cup is scorching hot; he pulls his hand away.

“Ouch!” Will looks up at Iseran. “Did you put _any_ cold water in that?!”

“...Why would I?” He looks genuinely confused. “Tea is meant to be hot.”

“It’s boiling!”

“You need warmth to help your muscles relax. Wait a bit more if you need to, but I am not putting any cold water in this.” Iseran sits next to him, another cup of tea in his hands. It’s probably just as hot, maybe even hotter than Will’s, but he has no trouble holding it or drinking it. Will looks at his own hands, rough and calloused, and then at Iseran’s delicate long fingers.

“Sometimes I think you have fire powers,” Will says. Iseran laughs and moves closer to him, leaning on Will’s shoulder. This by itself is enough to make him feel warmer, even though his own teacup remains untouched by the table.

“Just because I like tea?”

“Because you like ridiculously hot tea, and you think it’s normal.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not.” Will sighs. “You know what, I’m not pushing this. Live and let live, and all that.”

“A wise decision, especially if I did have fire powers,” Iseran smirks. It would suit him, Will thinks, with his red hair and tan freckled skin, and bright brown eyes that almost seem orange in warm light. Like a fire magician straight from a video game.

“...Do you have powers?” he asks, mostly joking - but in his still somewhat hazed state of mind absolutely ready to believe that the answer is “yes”.

“No, Will, I cannot control fire. Thankfully,” he chuckles. “Since that would be a disaster.”

“If you dropped fireballs like you keep dropping books and stuff? Oh, yes. Please don’t ever get fire powers.” Will wraps his arm around Iseran’s shoulder and he nestles closer. Will kisses his temple. “I love you just the way you are.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking tea - Will eventually does pick up his cup, which feels like it cooled down just enough to stop being a burn hazard, - and relaxing. Will tries to imagine what this evening could have looked like if he chose to stay in his own apartment instead. “Awful” seems to be the correct answer.

His mind drifts off, and he finds himself thinking about the mission again. Not about Shadow - he’s had enough of this guy, - but about Lightning. Where does she go once the mission is over? When Will was asked to leave, she was still in the conference room, talking to Seeker about her conversation with Shadow. Does she go anywhere at all?

 _It must be hard to hide when you glow like that,_ he thinks. _Is there a way to make this go away?_

Will would ask, but it would probably be rude. At least he thinks so; he hasn’t worked with many superheroes whose appearance was altered by their powers as much as Lightning’s. He hasn’t worked with many other superheroes at all, to be honest; the assault on Dumat Labs was the first big operation he was ever called to participate in, and even then his team was only backup.

 _There’s so much I don’t know yet,_ a thought crosses his mind, and Will sighs. Iseran looks up at him.

“Is something troubling you?”

“I… don’t know.” Will taps on his cup absentmindedly. “It’s just… I’m living the weirdest year of my life right now. I don’t know if I would have died today had nobody come to the rescue, but it sure felt like it. And just before I got the call from Seeker, I was having dinner with my parents; they invited a cousin over without telling me anything and gave her my room, and...” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m trying to build myself, to do good things, but what if in reality everything is just falling apart?”

“Will,” Iseran says gently. He sets his cup aside and cups Will’s face in his hands; Will feels the blood rush to his cheeks from the heat. Iseran looks right into his eyes, soft but serious. “You are doing your best, and everyone who has even the smallest bit of common sense can see that. I have never met anyone more determined to do the right thing than you are. You do know that, right?”

Will smiles weakly.

“Most of the time.”

“Well, then I am here to remind you of this whenever you need me to. Heroes struggle, but you do not have to struggle alone.” Iseran’s voice grows quiet. “I am here for you, Will, and I am not the only one. Please remember that.”

Will raises a hand to his face and covers one of Iseran’s palms with his own, brushing his fingers against the warm skin. There’s so much he wants to say.

“...I love you.”

Will doesn’t exactly register which one of them leans in for a kiss first; it just happens, and whatever worries he had left fade away. The only thing that’s left is the warmth and security of holding Iseran in his arms, and the thought that he loves him _so. damn. much._


	4. Silence

Dorian stares through the one-sided mirror, at the small, brightly lit interrogation room, and the cuffed figure sitting at the empty table in the middle of it.

He went through hundreds of scenarios in his head, all of which started with him walking into this room, finally getting the answers he has been hunting for… And yet, with every second that passes he realizes how utterly unprepared he is for this encounter.

Most of Shadow’s outfit has been removed, save for the black shirt and pants he was wearing underneath his costume. It caught Dorian by surprise when he first walked in here, and thank the Maker there was no one else around to see him freeze in place. Without the mask and hood, it’s excruciatingly easy to see not Shadow, but just Neilar Lavellan sitting at that table.

Dorian has been trying to think of them as two separate people for the past two weeks, for the sake of his own sanity, but this single moment has ruined all of these efforts. His gaze is immediately drawn to the blood on Neilar’s face and hands, to the handcuffs and the metallic collar around his neck - a device meant to prevent any use of superpowers with a high-voltage electric shock.

Anger starts boiling inside, but then he forces himself to look into Neilar’s eyes. They’re empty, staring into the air with no clear focus, and his expression is vacant. He doesn’t seem to notice the blood, or the handcuffs, or anything else around him; Lightning said they’ve found him already like that. Shining Shield described some kind of seizure, a malfunctioning of Shadow’s powers which caused his clones to multiply uncontrollably, almost suffocating both Shining and himself.

Whatever has happened to him, Neilar is not here right now. Dorian doubts it was really him in the bank, either, even despite Shining Shield claiming that he denied being mind-controlled; denial is a common symptom. He clings to facts such as this one, cold and simple, powering through despite the twisting pain in his chest. It’s the best he can do.

The Association is interested in getting answers, finding out what’s happened and making sure A Thousand Shadows is no longer a threat. They’re not nearly as interested in bringing Neilar Lavellan back.

 

The moment the interrogation room's door opens, Shadow’s head turns to it - the same blank expression on his face, except his eyes immediately focus on the agent in the doorway. His gaze follows Dorian across the room, tracking every movement, from the door to the chair on the other side of the table. Save for that movement, not a single muscle in his body as much as flinches.

Dorian sets a tablet on the table and with a few taps brings up the interrogation protocol, lingering for just one more moment before initiating the program and looking up at his subject. _Well, this is it._

He leans forward.

“Neilar Lavellan, also known as A Thousand Shadows, or Shadow. Earlier today you were  arrested for what appears to be an attempt of bank robbery.”

Silence.

“A ridiculous attempt, if you ask me. What were you thinking? Blasting the safe open with Lightning’s powers? Really, I thought you were better than this.”

Shadow doesn’t even blink, staring right back at him. Dorian feels the frustration starting to build up; his lips curl back unwillingly, but he forces himself to assume a neutral expression again.

“Alright. Perhaps you don’t fully understand the situation. Let me explain, then: Thedas Superhero Association is one phone call away from classifying you as a supervillain, and that phone call _will_ happen, Neilar,” despite his best efforts, his voice does tremble a bit, “If you don’t provide any kind of explanation for your actions. So do me a favor, stop being a moron, and do so. It is in your interest, after all.”

Shadow tilts his head slightly, and Dorian’s heart skips a bit. For a moment it almost seems like a reaction to his words, like something that will be followed by an answer. It is not.

“Fasta vass,” Dorian mutters. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

He stands up; his chair slides back with a horrible scraping noise, almost falling over.

“Do you even _understand_ that you are being asked a question?”

Obviously, there is no response. Dorian glances down at the tablet still running the interrogation protocol. Recording their every word. Shadow’s dark eyes watch him as he snatches it from the table and in one quick swipe deactivates the program. He holds the tablet up, making sure Shadow can see what he just did, before putting it away. Slowly, he circles around the table and stops next to Shadow. He has to make an effort to look at him again, which is much harder now that it isn’t Agent Pavus talking anymore.

“I don’t know if you can truly hear or understand me,” he says quietly, “But I definitely hope so, because you have to know that you scared me to death, and I will never forgive you for disappearing like that. I am only holding off until we bring you back. And we _will_ bring you back; _I_ will bring you back, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

Shadow doesn’t show any reaction, but it doesn’t matter to him anymore. It’s clear there won’t be any answers here today, but he can at least try to get a message across. And maybe, _maybe_ , if Dorian tries hard enough, this message will be worth something.

“I want you to know...” He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his voice again. “I want to you know that I’m sorry about what I said that day, before… before you left. Maybe we can continue that discussion once you are yourself again, what do you say?”

The answer is, of course, nothing. Dorian forces a smile, and feels the familiar twisting pain inside.

“I hope you know how much I hate you for making me go through this. And I hope you know I am not giving up on you,” the words get stuck in the throat as he suddenly remembers there are still cameras around, and though their conversation is not recorded anymore, it can definitely still be watched. Dorian looks at the camera in the corner right above them, then back at Shadow, and forces one more word out, “...Amatus.”

At this very moment, the door behind his back opens. He turns around just in time to see three people enter the room, two of whom wear the same uniform black suit as Dorian himself, complete with agent badges; he does not see any name tags. The third man, who enters the room last, wears a simple grey sweater and no indicators of his status whatsoever. He steps forward from behind the agents’ backs, shooting one curious look at Shadow and then diverting his attention to Dorian, announcing calmly:

“Thank you for your effort, Agent Pavus, but I believe your work here is over.” He extends a pale hand forward. “Professor Solas. I will be overseeing the transportation of both Mr. Lavellan and the device he has been seeking to a safer environment.”

It takes Dorian a moment to snap back into agent mode; his heart is pounding in his ears, and his mind is racing. How much have they seen? How much have they _heard_?

He crosses his arms, and gives the professor - whose appearance is one big fashion crime, from the shaved head to the horrible dust-colored sweater, - his best doubtful look.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” he asks. “Am I supposed to believe you have permission to take away my case just because you showed up here with two of my colleagues? Whom I don’t think I know, actually.” Dorian glances over the two agents in suits. Professor Solas is accompanied by the two most nondescript men he has ever seen, which is oddly fitting. “What are your names, gentlemen?”

The two exchange confused looks, then turn over to the professor. Are they looking for _his_ permission to introduce themselves? What is this? Somehow, Dorian doubts “professor” Solas is a mere researcher as his introduction suggested. Researches don’t “oversee” operations or command agents. All the stranger that Solas has not announced his true status.

“I believe you are stalling for time,” the man says. “This is understandable, but highly inconvenient. Agent Harper, would you please show Mr. Pavus that we have all the documents necessary?”

The agent to Solas’ right walks over to the table, grabs Dorian’s tablet, types something in and hands it over to him. On the screen are, indeed, the names and photographs of all three of them, and a block of text that states their rights to _“transport the inmate formerly known as A Thousand Shadows, now to be referred to as N., to a research facility for further investigation of his current condition”_. Complete with Agent Nightingale’s signature underneath it.

Dorian looks up, to meet Solas’ gaze. “You’re taking him to a prison.”

“A research facility,” the professor corrects him.

“I’m an agent, damn it! I know it’s the same bloody thing.” Dorian catches himself tapping on the tablet’s surface nervously and halts, then hurriedly puts it away. _Think! There has to be a way to stall, to do… something! Kaffas_ _. They take him, and he will not see the light of day ever again._

“His condition?” Dorian raises an eyebrow. “The influence of hypnosis? The malfunctioning of his powers? Is this enough to lock someone up nowadays?”

Solas lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Agent Pavus, I ask you for the last time to stop wasting our time and leave the interrogation room, otherwise my helpers will have to arrest you. We have the permission to do that as well.”

There is a moment of silence in the room, as the two agents stare at him in a manner that’s probably supposed to be intimidating, but is rather comedic in fact.  

“I promise,” Solas adds softly, “That we will take good care of your partner and make sure he is not in any way harmed.”

The words hang in the air between them. Unable to hold back any longer, Dorian takes a step towards Solas.

“You!...”

The professor simply stares him down. For several more moments Dorian clings to the illusion that there is something to be done, but he is clearly overpowered.

“This is not over,” he says, but he might as well be saying these words to thin air.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Solas replies.

As he leaves the room, Dorian turns around one last time to see the agents uncuffing Neilar and standing him up, while Solas approaches with a syringe in his hand; probably some sort of sedative, to ease the “transportation”. Dorian turns away.

“This is not over”. Bold words, but what can he really do?...

 _Solve the damn case,_ he answers himself. _The faster, the better._

As he walks through the dark corridors, Dorian takes out his phone and finds Lightning’s contact. He’ll sort this out. He has to.

 


	5. Scapegoat

A faint buzzing noise and a vibration around Will’s left wrist pull him back into reality. He shuffles underneath the blanket, bringing his arm up to his face and squinting sleepily. His watch-communicator is lit up and vibrating in a familiar pattern, the Association’s logo glowing on the small display. Will taps on the device, and the logo is replaced by a message:

**_All heroes and agents assigned to the Viscount Bank case: an emergency meeting will take place at the main base, Room 143, 6:30 AM._ **

“Something happened,” he murmurs, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms - careful not to disturb Iseran, who is curled up right next to him. Will lingers for a moment, just looking at him: peaceful and at the same time looking somewhat worried even in his sleep. Part of Will wants to wake him up and get just a few more moments together, but Iseran’s shift at the hospital starts early and Will should probably let him get all the rest he can.

 _I_ _took enough of your time yesterday,_ he thinks, and, giving one last endearing look to his sleeping boyfriend, slips out of bed. He has mastered the skill of leaving unnoticed in these last few months, whenever Seeker alerted him, be it the middle of the night or early morning like today.

Will makes a beeline to the bathroom, picking up his clothes on the way, and gets ready for the day. When he looks up from the sink after brushing his teeth - his visits have become so frequent lately, he earned himself a toothbrush and even a drawer of his own at Iseran’s place, - Will sees a large bruise adorning his left temple, and winces. 

_Mom’s going to think I got into a bar fight. Maybe I can avoid her until this heals up? Iseran will probably have something to make this go away in a day or two._

He grabs his keys from the coffee table where he left them last night, and stops to scribble a small goodbye note for Iseran before heading outside. He tries to draw a heart in the bottom, but it turns out so bad he has to turn it into a flower midway.

 _This is embarrassing._  

Wil makes his way down to the parking lot, gets into the car and starts the engine. As the already familiar route from Iseran’s building to the Association headquarters pops up in his head, Will realizes he has to make another stop first. The secret compartment in his car has his shield, but not the costume; he left it at this place last night. _And… Irresponsible Hero Of The Month goes to Will Trevelyan!_

Well, to be fair, he had to leave it. It would take hours for it to clean after yesterday’s operation - at least Will didn't have to do it himself; the Association provided a self-cleaning storage unit along with the costume, - and he couldn’t make Iseran wait for this long, especially after he promised to be there in a matter of minutes. And nothing happened, right? So he’ll just make a quick stop and pick up his squeaky clean suit before heading to the base. No one will ever know.

_Wait, do I even need to wear the suit in the meeting? Or do I wear just the mask? We don’t have to fight anyone, right?... Damn it, why don’t they teach you about the meetings in that stupid entry course?_

 

The shortest route from his flat to the Association requires him to pass in front of his old… his parents’ house, but he’s willing to make that sacrifice. Not that Wll has much of a choice - it’s 6:05 in the morning already, and he has no idea where Room 143 even is, so it’s really not much time until the meeting starts.

Driving up to the house, he sees the front door open. A weird feeling washes over him, and Will slams the brakes, stopping the car just in time to see no other than Evelyn walking out.

_What the hell is she doing up, and outside, at six in the morning?_

The mystery lasts up until Will gets a better look at her clothes: a pink hoodie and sweatpants, earphones hanging around her neck. The next moment, Evelyn stretches, breathes deeply and starts jogging in the exact same direction Will has to go. He fails to hold back a frustrated groan. Of course his perfect cousin goes jogging at 6 AM, exactly when he needs to get to the Association as fast as possible!

He raises all the windows in the car, lamenting the fact that none of them are toned - even though that would look hideous and he would never do this to his precious baby, - and, taking a deep breath, almost like Evelyn before starting her exercise, drives by as fast as possible. As soon as they’re far enough apart, Will looks at the side mirror. Evelyn doesn’t seem to have noticed him, and if she has, she shows no reaction whatsoever.

He all but forgets the incident, until, just a turn away from the Association’s building, she pops up again. Will can’t believe his eyes, looking at the bright pink hoodie in the side-view mirror. How the hell did she get here at that pace? What turn did she take? He doesn’t want to think about what will happen if Evelyn spots him.

 _She could have seen the car_ _yesterday when she went outside, what if she will recognize it? No, no, she’s not that smart,_ he tries to calm his paranoid thoughts. _She wasn’t following me. She’s just jogging. See, not even looking at the car. It’s all good._

Still, he breathes out in relief when Evelyn crosses the road and takes a right turn, heading away from the Association’s building. Will turns left, and arrives at the base’s parking lot at 6:25 AM.

He ended up putting the costume on underneath his regular clothes back at his flat, so all that’s left to do is pull down the mask that’s been hanging behind his back all this time like a really uncomfortable hood. It’s also very hot, wearing three layers, one of which is a reinforced superhero costume.

At least it would be hard to tell if he started sweating.

 

Luckily, Will doesn’t have to look for Room 143; an agent stops him in the hallway, having recognized him as Shining Shield, and gives him directions. He still manages to take the wrong elevator, and arrives at the meeting exactly at 6:40.

Inside the circular room with several whiteboards and a conference table in the center are Lightning - obviously, in her superhero attire, - Seeker - damn, it feels weird to see his agent supervisor in the flesh and not as a hologram, - and two other people Will does not recognize: a woman with the face of a porcelain statue and short red hair, and a man of particularly short height, whose hair pulled back in a ponytail reveals a single golden earring. Both are wearing agent uniforms, but the redhead’s badge looks different from those Will has seen before, depicting some sort of bird, and the man’s outfit is missing a tie, his white shirt unbuttoned almost all the way to the middle. His badge is similar to Seeker’s, the familiar image of an open eye surrounded by rays of light, but bronze-colored instead of silver.

The redheaded woman, who stands next to one of the whiteboards, greets him with a nod. “Welcome, Shining Shield. You’ve arrived just in time; I was just about to start the briefing.”

Seeker stands up. “Shining Shield, this is Agent Nightingale. She is in charge of our operation. And this,” she nods towards the man sitting next to her, “Is Agent Tethras. He is, among other things, Lightning’s curator, just like I am yours.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Nightingale smiles,  but that smile doesn’t spread to her eyes.

“Shining! Heard a lot about you. Good work you’re doing out there. You can call me Varric,” Agent Tethras winks, earning himself a sharp look from Seeker.

“Agent!”

“What? I’m not a superhero. My name is not secret,” he shrugs.

“Maintain. A. Distance,” Seeker’s frown deepens with every word. “This is an operation of exceptional importance, and - ”

Lightning lets out a laugh that echoes in the room for a moment. She’s standing behind the two agents, leaning on the wall. ”Don’t mind them, Shining. They actually get along quite well.”

“I… It’s good to meet you, Agent Tethras and Agent Nightingale.” He would go up to shake their hands, but it would probably be awkward. Will goes for a respectful nod, kind of a bow, instead, and still feels weird.

“Now that introductions are out of the way, let us discuss the bad news. Shining Shield, please have a seat,” Nightingale gestures to the table, and Will hurriedly takes a seat one chair away from Seeker.

“Thank you. Now, as I was saying...” The agent sighs. “This morning, a team of three agents has been tasked with transporting yesterday’s culprit, Neilar Lavellan, formerly the superhero A Thousand Shadows, and the device he tried to blackmail Lightning into retrieving for him, into a safer facility than out base. However...”

The whiteboard lights up. Given that there are no projectors in the room, Will understands it probably serves as a screen as well. An image of a highway appears on the screen, and Will recognizes it: it’s a photo of the south exit from the city, probably from a road camera. In the middle of the road are an upturned black van, and two other cars crashed into it. Nightingale gestures at the van.

“This is the vehicle that was transporting them. It was driving on the highway at 5 AM this morning, when the transport has reportedly started spinning, causing two other cars to crash into it. When the vehicle stopped, no driver or passengers have been found inside. The device appears to be gone as well.”

Five photographs appear on the screen: Shadow, without his mask, and four unfamiliar men, one bald, another two dark-haired and the last one has a magnificent blonde ponytail and a scar over his left eye. Will squints, trying to read the names underneath, but the font is too small.

“Four of these people are still missing. There have been no sightings of Lavellan, or any of the people accompanying him: Professor Solas, Agent Sterling and Agent Harper. Lucas, the driver, was found dead at 5:30 AM, near the north exit from the city.”

The highway and portraits are replaced by an image of a road circling around a field. It takes him a moment, but Will sees a black silhouette lying in the soil, limbs spread out. “The body has been burned beyond visual recognition, but a DNA test has confirmed his identity.”

Nightingale looks over the four listeners. Will looks around as well; everyone seems to be taking in the news. Lightning’s expression is, as always, hard to read, but her posture is stiff. Seeker’s look has become even more stern, and Tethras - Varric, - spins a pen in his fingers, looking concerned, but not as tense as the other two.

“Could Shadow - could Lavellan do this?” Seeker asks, a reluctant look on her face, but her tone still firm. “This device… Could he have used it to kill the agents and escape?”

Varric shakes his head.

“Sorry, Seeker. I was there when our guys poked at this thing, and it didn’t seem to be a weapon.”

“I read the report,” she snaps back. “But they found an energy source, didn’t they? Couldn’t this device explode and kill the driver?”

“Well,” Varric rubs his nose, seemingly deep in thought. “That is possible. But in that case, why didn’t we find more bodies, and how did the driver end up so far away?” He looks up at Nightingale. “Was the vehicle damaged in any way?”

She shakes her head. “Our agents didn’t find any signs of damage beyond what has been caused by the collision with the other cars.”

“And I assume there weren’t any reports of an explosion as well,” Varric mutters. Nightingale confirms his guess with a nod. “That’s a tricky one. I won’t say that’s not possible - Corypheus built all kinds of crazy shit, - but a lot of things would have to work together to make that happen, I...” He sighs. “I’ll look into this. Give me a good team and a day of work, and we’ll come up with a better answer.”

“We may need you elsewhere,” Nightingale says, “But I’ll think about it. Thank you, Varric.”

“Where’s Dorian?” Lightning asks suddenly. “If Lavellan is missing again, he should know about this.” She looks at Nightingale. “Why isn’t he with us?”

“Because Agent Pavus is one of our suspects, and is currently under arrest,” Nightingale replies calmly.

“What? - ” Lightning’s eyes widen. “Why?”

The screen dims, returning to its whiteboard state.

“Agent Pavus had both the motive and the opportunity to arrange the kidnapping of Lavellan, and possibly the murder of the agents guarding him. The motive being, of course, his relationship with Lavellan, which both believed to be secret.” On his left, Will hears Seeker gasp in a really uncharacteristic manner; at the same time, Varric sighs quietly.

“Just several hours prior to the incident, Agent Pavus tried to prevent Professor Solas and the assigned agents from taking Lavellan away. After failing, he has stated that, quote, this is not over,” Nightingale continues, looking directly at Lightning. Will doesn’t understand why, until Lightning crosses her arms and replies:

“I know. He called me right after.”

Both Seeker and Varric turn to look at Lightning as well. Will feels a chill run down his spine, remembering the driver’s charred corpse.

_No, it can’t be! It can’t!... Right?_

“ _What?_ He wasn’t talking about _murder!_ He wanted to solve the case, and prove that N - ” Lightning catches herself, and then, probably remembering Shadow’s identity isn’t secret anymore, continues, “ - that Neilar is innocent. That he didn’t anything to deserve being locked up, and, to be honest, I agree with him. Does it mean I would kill an agent and kidnap Neil? Of course not! And if you ask me, the same applies to Agent Pavus. That’s it. Thanks for your attention.”

She looks away, frowning. The outburst surprises Will; he has always assumed that Lightning is older than him, for some reason, but this… Upset, she looks very young. He doesn’t have much time to process this thought, however, because Nightingale’s voice sounds again, still calm, but with a sharp undertone that everyone in the room can perfectly hear:

“Shadow and the agents, along with the driver, have been reported to seemingly disappear from a driving car. Such a method would suggest an ability to manipulate objects, perhaps alter space or time, would it not?”

“I think I understand,” Seeker says slowly. “You’re hinting at Agent Pavus’ background, am I right?”

“Oh, come on,” Varric rolls his eyes. “It’s been ages. You can’t be serious.”

Nightingale turns to Will.

“Shining Shield, let me explain our debate. Agent Pavus’ origin is… rather unusual. Before coming to the Organization about eight years ago, he worked under Professor Gereon Alexius, a famous man in the Tevinter scientific society.”

Will knows that name. “The Magister?”

“Yes,” Nightingale nods. “Of course, he wasn’t The Magister when young Pavus took on the role of his apprentice, but his experiments with time manipulation long predate that title. Moreover, Alexius has remained fond of Pavus over the years. Even though The Magister’s inventions have been destroyed, working inside our organization, it wouldn’t be difficult for Pavus to gain access to Alexius’ cell and obtain information which could later be used to break Lavellan out.”

“But within _hours?_ ” Lightning interrupts. “He didn’t know you were about to transfer Neilar! This plan would have taken weeks to carry out.”

“The fact remains: theoretically, Agent Pavus had access to the necessary tools. This theory is not perfect, and it is not the only one, but we cannot rule it out,” Nightingale says, and Lightning sighs, hanging her head.

“...Alright, that’s fair.”

 


	6. Lightning

“This is _absolutely_ not fair!” Lightning whispers furiously as they walk down the corridor.

She’s trying to keep her voice down, but it’s not really working; it’s more like a low, incomprehensible, but still very much audible rumble that makes the floor under their feet vibrate ever so slightly. Her hair floats around her face in a glowing cloud, shooting angry sparks that land on Will’s jacket every once in a while.

_Do I smell burning leather, or is it just my imagination?..._

“Dorian is a good agent, and a good person, and a professional! - well, okay, he _was_ dating his assigned superhero, but this has nothing to do with his past!” Lightning throws her hands in the air. Will has never seen her so upset before, and he saw this woman get grabbed and thrown against a building by a four-stories-tall monster once.

“You know what? I think it’s because he’s Tevinter!” she exclaims. “And _yes_ , absolutely, they’re the worst, but it’s been _years_ since he’s last been in Tevinter because they _banned_ _the Association_ , let me repeat that, _eight years_ since he visited home, and do they ever appreciate that? No!”

“This… does sound really bad.”

Somehow, Will feels that he walked in on a debate that didn’t start today and will probably not end today either. Lightning stops suddenly and turns to look at him. They’re standing almost shoulder to shoulder, and Lightning is noticeably shorter than him - to the point of having to tilt her head up a bit to look into his eyes. Her expression is dead serious.

“This _is_ bad,” she says. “I know how it feels to be separated from your family, not knowing if you can ever go back. It hurts, no matter your relationship with them: there once was a place where you belonged, and now it’s gone.”

 _That’s something we have in common,_ Will thinks. Sure, there are no actual laws stopping him from visiting his parents’ house, he just was there yesterday, but… Last night’s talk with Iseran comes to mind again. Will sighs. _There might as well be border control._

Lighting apparently interprets this as a sigh of sympathy, as in the next moment she says:

“You know what? I want to get to the bottom of this. I’m gonna go talk to Dorian. Want to join me?”

It’s not like he has anything better to do; the rest of the meeting, which wasn’t very long, went by discussing different tasks and assignments, most of which the agents would handle. His and Lightning’s instructions were to stay on high alert, and immediately report in if they spot Shadow. Lavellan. Whatever this guy’s name is now.

He shrugs. “Sure. Might as well hear the other side of the story, and maybe he does have something useful to say.”

Lightning nods energetically. “That’s right. Let’s go! I have an idea of where they may be keeping him.”

 

Lightning leads him into the east wing of the building; looking around, Will can’t remember ever going there, even on the ground floor.

“This space is usually reserved for agents and their stuff,” Lightning explains, “But also there are a few TC cells on the lower levels.”

“What’s TC?”

“Temporary confinement. Like when you need to question a bad guy before he’s whisked off to jail. Or lock up one of your own agents, I guess. I’ve been there a few times, for the Magister and… Was it the Harlequin?” she shrugs. “I don’t remember.”

“Oh.”

Makes sense why he hasn’t been here, then. His role in the capture of “bad guys” usually ended at beating them senseless, then handing them over to Seeker’s team. To actually be there for the questioning… He feels a little jealous of Lightning, but also, would he really want to be a part of this? Looking into the eyes of someone he just fought and defeated sounds... both satisfying and awkward, and Will has a feeling there would probably be more of the latter than the former in his case. Lightning is way more fit for the job. She’s serious and intimidating, with a voice that probably shakes the entire interrogation room. _He_ would confess to anything, were he interrogated by someone that terrifying.

They stop by a large metal door with two guards in front of it. As they approach, the guards’ relaxed posture straightens and both salute: “Lady Lightning!”

“Good morning,” she replies.

_Lady Lightning?_

“Seems like they like you here,” Will murmurs. A smile flashes - quite literally, - across Lighting’s face.

“That they do.”

“Who wouldn’t, with the people she brings in!” cheers one of the guards, a redheaded young man with puffed-up sleepy eyes. There’s an obvious undertone to his enthusiasm that doesn’t escape Will, and he’s not sure how to feel about this discovery. Sure, Lightning is impressive, but having a crush on her? He shakes his head in wonder. _Poor guy probably hasn’t met Jenny yet._

“It’s nice talking to you, but I’m afraid we’re here for business,” Lightning says. “They brought an agent in earlier this morning, correct?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Pavus,” the redheaded guard nods. “That look he had on his face… Are you sure he did something? I mean, they wouldn’t lock him up if he didn’t, but…” he shakes his head. “No-no-no, I’m talking nonsense here, Sorry, Lady Lightning. The early hours do that, you know.”

“We’re here to sort this out,” she says softly. “Would you please open the door for us?”

“Right away!” The guard turns around to the keypad next to the door, but the other, older guard shoots him a look. She seems much more focused, with greying hair pulled into a tight bun under her cap.

“I’m sorry, but we have to ask you leave any weapons and items of power behind,” she says, and Will realizes she’s talking to him specifically. No wonder, his shield is still affixed to his arm; he dragged the damn thing to the meeting, useless as it is, but it felt weird to leave it in the car. Everyone acted like everything’s normal so far, so he assumed he’s doing it right. But to hand it in?... He looks at Lightning; she nods, and he hands the shield over to the woman.

“Thank you,” the guard says, and turns to Lightning, who is already detaching a few small boxes and contraptions from her belt. Will has seen these before - the boxes are mostly filled with handy little things like metal wires, and the devices can be energized with her powers.

“Thank you,” the guard repeats and walks away with their weapons, towards a door Will hasn’t noticed before. He hears a clicking sound and turns around to see Lightning close a thin metal band around her neck. He’s seen these before as well - agents put them on arrested supervillains who had powers themselves. They’re supposed to block their abilities, but what can this tiny bit of metal do to someone like Lightning?

Will watches as the collar changes color, glowing red, yellow and then hot white. It starts vibrating, and Will hears a hum coming from the device, as it glows brighter and brighter, while Lightning’s glow seems to dim more and more. Her hair stops hovering and sparkling, and suddenly he can see skin behind the blueish-white glow that covered every visible surface of her body before. The collar flashes, forcing him to shield his eyes for a moment, and when Will puts his hand down, a perfectly ordinary human woman is standing in front of him.

His gaze meets a pair of wide, bright blue eyes… staring at him from the face of Evelyn Trevelyan, who is for some reason wearing Lightning’s blue supersuit, with a shiny metallic choker around her neck.

Will blinks. The strange vision doesn’t disappear.

“We’re ready to go,” Evelyn says, in Evelyn’s voice, that doesn’t resemble Lightning’s booming manner of speech in the slightest - but in the exact same tone in which she greeted the guards. He starts feeling dizzy.

The guards approach the two identical keyboards affixed to the wall on both sides of the door, type in a code, and the large door slides into the wall. The older guard turns around, salutes his cousin and says, “Good luck.”

Only when the door closes behind their back, and… Lightning? Evelyn? - turns to him, the realization dawns on Will that she is no vision.

“You!” he whispers furiously. The figure in blue freezes mid-step. “What in the Void are you doing here?!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Evelyn sighs.

“I would ask you the same question,” she says, slowly turning around, “But you outed yourself the moment you opened your mouth during that dinner.”

It takes him a second to process her words.

“...What?”

“Your voice. It’s a very distinct one. I would recognize your speech anywhere. Not to mention the rippling muscles.”

Will blinks.

“...Are you mocking me right now?”

“A little bit.”

Evelyn smiles; it’s Lightning’s smile rather than one of those sugary sweet grimaces she made during their first meeting, and as her electric blue eyes flash at him, Will suddenly sees her as if for the first time. A little bit of his cousin, a little bit of his fellow hero, but… different. She extends a hand forward.

“It’s good to finally meet you, William Trevelyan. Shining Shield.”

Will shakes her hand, and there is no electric shock this time. It still feels weird, too weird to be real.

“...I have so many questions,” he says, stepping back. “First of all… What on earth do I call you now?”

“Whatever you want. Just don’t throw my name around while we’re working, and I’ll be sure to return the favor.” Evelyn’s tone is light, as if she’s joking, but something sharp sparks up behind her eyes as she speaks. Will feels a shiver run down his spine.

“Understood.”

 

They pass through several corridors, connected by glass doors with people behind desks on both sides of them. These people don’t wear badges or carry weapons, and smile briefly at Evelyn’s sight before typing something on the keyboard in front of them and opening the door. Eventually, they step into a hallway lined with metallic doors on both sides, similar to the first one they entered, but significantly smaller and with numbers engraved on them. On each door there is also a screen; some are empty, while others display a photo, a name and what Will assumes some additional information on the prisoner’s status, ciphered and color-coded and completely alien to him. To his surprise, at first glance he doesn’t recognize a single face.

It doesn’t take long to spot Agent Pavus’ - Dorian’s, as Evelyn kept referring to him, - picture. She stands before the door, and Will notices a small blinking light in its center - some sort of scanner?

A small buzz sounds, and the door silently opens.

Behind it is a grey and barren room, split in two by a glass wall which stretches from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling. On the other side of it is a classic cell setup and a figure in black, pacing relentlessly from side to side.

The agent doesn’t notice the visitors right away; the glass muffles the sound of his footsteps, and from that Will concludes that he must have not heard them enter. Evelyn approaches the wall, and he notices a small keypad there; she types in a combination, and Dorian suddenly perks up, turning towards the glass. His eyes widen for a moment when he sees the two heroes, but only for a moment; his expression then becomes cold, as his lips curl in a sarcastic smile.

“Lightning,” his voice sounds, distorted. They must have some kind of speakers here to get the sound over the wall. “Marvelous. And Shining Shield, too. Have you two come to escort me out? And to where, I wonder? I hear Aeonar is lovely this time of the year, and they’ve almost finished the repairs.” He steps forward and stops before the glass, inches away from Evelyn, staring her down.

“We’re not taking you to prison, Dorian,” she says quietly. “It’s obvious you’re innocent. Even Agent Nightingale knows it.”

“Agent Nightingale needs a scapegoat,” he snaps, turning away. “She would much rather silence this story than look into the truth. Quite uncharacteristic of her, for someone who has sworn to protect both civilians and heroes.”

Evelyn’s voice remains calm:

“Well, we’re not here on her behalf.”

Dorian glances at her from the side of his eye, then turns his gaze to Will. His suit is disheveled, Will notices, as well as his hair, his badge is gone and the twinkle in his eyes is neither joy nor anger. It’s fear.

The agent closes his eyes.

“...I should have figured. She would send an agent with you, not Captain Shield over here.”

“Shining,” Will corrects automatically. “Shining Shield.”

“I know.” Dorian looks at Evelyn. “An unsanctioned visit, then? Is seeing my misery worth such a risk?”

“We came for answers,” she says. “Nightingale doesn’t trust you, that’s true, but I do. Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know what happened. I didn’t do it. That is the whole point of a scapegoat, no?” Dorian lets out a small, bitter laugh. Evelyn crosses her arms.

“Well, tell me what you _think_ happened! I don't believe that you spent hours in there and haven’t come up with a single theory. If I know you at all, you have at least six, and all of them are better than _Dorian Pavus has committed treachery, kidnapping and murder over a love affair, with the help of his former mentor, The Magister._ ”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “They brought Alexius into this? I should have guessed.”

“They think you used his inventions to make them disappear,” Will says. Evelyn gives him a quick glance over her shoulder, as if she has forgotten he’s still there.

“Well, that’s ridiculous. You helped arrest him! You, of all heroes, should know that The Magister’s inventions would leave behind enormous anomalies. Plucking five people out of a moving car, without tearing the entire highway apart?” Dorian shakes his head. “In his fantasies, maybe, but our… his technology was never capable of such finesse. No, I do not think Alexius or any of his inventions are at fault. Nightingale is right in one thing,” he lowers his voice suddenly, and it turns into a quiet rustle inside the speakers, “This was no simple villain. Our enemy is smart and just as resourceful as we are.”

Evelyn frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Sadly, I cannot tell you,” the agent shrugs. “Valiant as I am, I’ve no desire to be next in line.” Him and Evelyn share a look; there’s an air of silent agreement between the two.

“Well,” she says, stepping back from the glass, “Then I believe you’re no use for us. Good luck. Dorian.” She turns away and starts walking towards the keypad again, when Dorian calls out:

“Wait!”

Evelyn turns over her shoulder.

“Yes?” 

“I need a favor,” the agent says. “Not as a colleague, but as a friend. See, I’ve sent my best suit to be cleaned, and it seems I will not be allowed to pick it up for a while. Could you please do this for me? You know the place; last time I didn’t show up on time, these morons lost my clothes.”

“Fine. Good to see you’re staying true to yourself, at least.” She reaches the keypad and types in a different combination, and the room falls silent.

“Let’s go,” Evelyn says. “We won’t get anything else from him.”

“But… He didn’t give us anything?” Will asks, puzzled.

She just smiles in response, and by the look in her eyes Will knows Evelyn got more out of the conversation than he did.

_No wonder._

 


	7. Cooperation

The parking lot is packed full now; Will doesn’t even notice his own car at first.

“So,” he asks as they pass rows of vehicles of various shapes and colors, “How long have you known each other? You and, um, Dorian. You seem like good friends.”

“Ah, it’s been a couple of years.” Evelyn glances at her reflection in the toned window of a van and fixes her hair, the “perfect cousin” seeping back into her gestures. She’s wearing the pink sweatshirt again, and Will himself has his mask down.

“...We met through Neilar, you know. His previous supervisor retired after a nasty injury, and they decided to assign Dorian to him. A lot of people raised their eyebrows when they heard a Tevinter name, I know I did… but not Neil. He never questioned him. Turned out Dorian was more trustworthy than our superiors,” her voice grows bitter towards the end of the sentence.

“You’re still mad at Nightingale?”

Evelyn stares at him in disbelief. “Of course I am!”

“I mean…” Will scratches the back of his head. “I get it, kind of. She locked up your friend, exposed his relationship, but… he _is_ the most obvious suspect. Wouldn’t you be wary too?”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t do it like _this._ This just feels...” She sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just hate seeing him like this, and knowing Neilar’s still missing. Oh, look, here’s your car.”

“How did you - oh, that’s right. You followed me.” The memory of this morning’s chase feels very different now, knowing fully who he was trying to avoid. It feels even weirder when Evelyn climbs into his car and takes the passenger seat, leaning back and looking around.

 _Lightning is sitting in my car,_ Will thinks, starting the engine. _Lightning, who is also my cousin. I’m going to drive Lightning… To where?_

“Wait, where are we going?” he asks Evelyn, and sees the hint of another knowing smile in her eyes.

“To do my friend a favor, obviously.”

 

About half an hour later, Will watches her exit the doors of a small building with a sign saying “Sparkling Clean” on it. The item of clothing she’s holding up is certainly sparkling; as she walks closer, Will makes out a glittering golden suit inside the plastic bag.

Evelyn looks extremely pleased with herself when she plops down on the passenger seat again, the suit folded carefully in her lap. Will stares at it, horrified.

“He wears _that?_ ”

“You just haven’t seen him at his best,” Evelyn winks.

He tries to imagine Agent Pavus in the glittery suit; the result makes him wince and shake his head fiercely, trying to erase the picture from his mind.

Evelyn pats him on the shoulder:

“Now, if you’re done having a breakdown, please take us to your place.”

“Why?…” With each passing moment, he understands less and less. Will sighs. “...Okay.”

The drive home is mostly silent; he all but forgets about his cousin sitting to his right, until, suddenly, Evelyn asks:

“Your parents don’t know, right? This is why you live alone.”

Will can’t say he didn’t see this question coming.

“Yeah,” he mutters. It’s pointless to deny, though Will is not sure if he’s ready to have an in-depth conversation about his parents right now.

“Mine neither,” Evelyn says.

“Makes sense,” he nods. “Say… How do you pull this off?”

“Being Lightning?”

“Exactly. It’s all clear with me, I’m the family disappointment, so no one’s surprised when I run off. But you...” Will shakes his head. “A top student? How is this even possible?”

Evelyn chuckles quietly.

“Well, let’s say it takes a lot of thinking to combine my two schedules. But also, you learn to get away with things eventually.”

“Like yesterday,” Will says. “Or today’s morning.”

“Exactly! All it takes is good reputation and a good excuse. I also happen to have a little more favor with my parents than you do,” the second phrase sounds almost apologetic. “For the last ten years, at least. They’ve been more strict, but also more forgiving, strange as that sounds.”

_For the last ten years…_

“Wait!” he gasps. “Wait, so the story is true? You did run away from home at thirteen?”

Evelyn laughs, though there is no joy in it.

“Made me quite famous among family members, did it?”

“I can’t believe this. What happened? Where have you been?” Will asks, burning with curiosity. “They say you hitchhiked all the way to Kirkwall and stayed at the Hanged Man for half a year!”

“They say _what?..._ Oh, Maker,” she sighs. “For now let’s just say none of this is true. Maybe I’ll tell you once we’re not investigating a case of abduction, murder and possible treachery, deal?”

Will resists the urge to turn and look at her, keeping his eyes on the road. What is is about that story that makes it so complicated? Is the explanation something so strange? Is -

“Is this about your powers?” he blurts out.

“ _Will._ Later _._ ”

“Alright, alright,” he mutters. “No big deal. Just the biggest family legend since the story of how grand-grand-grand-grandpa made his fortune and built good ole House Trevelyan up from the ground.”

“You missed another ‘grand’ there,” Evelyn notes, then adds, much quieter, “And I assure you, nothing about me was legendary back then.”

Her words only stir his curiosity again, but Will keeps the questions to himself this time.

 

Once inside his apartment, Evelyn does something strange: she drops the suit, previously carried with great caution, onto the floor and makes her way across the living room to pull the window shutters down. Before Will manages to say anything, she disappears into the kitchen, and he hears another window shutting. She does the same in the bathroom and even in his bedroom, not even stopping to ask permission. Once the entire flat is submerged in darkness, Evelyn returns to the living room and, after a moment of hesitation, reaches for her necklace. A faint click, a low hum - and suddenly it is bright as daylight, even though none of the lamps are on, and Lightning is standing in the center of Will’s apartment.

With apparent satisfaction, she stretches her now glowing arms before reaching into her pocket and fishing out her blue gloves.

“Sorry,” Lightning smiles apologetically, putting them on. “The thing is harmless, but it's extremely annoying. I’m still wearing my suit, so...” She looks around. “...That should be okay. I’ll try not to lean against anything.”

“...Right,” Will says, finally. “Could’ve given me a warning, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” she nods, then returns to the suit; her walk is Lightning’s energetic stride, but now Will notices some of Evelyn in the way she throws her floating hair back before taking off. He shudders.

_I need to stop thinking of them as separate people. Evelyn. Her name is Evelyn._

Lightning - Evelyn, - returns, the glittery suit glowing in her arms like a bizarre disco ball; Will squints and shields his eyes, but still sees she’s grinning widely.

“Got a knife? Or scissors. Scissors are probably better.”

“Sure, I have both - wait, why?...”  

Evelyn isn’t listening anymore; she’s over by the sofa, unzipping the plastic bag and laying out the suit. Will groans quietly.

 

“Is this what Jenny has to put up with?” he asks, returning with a pair of scissors.

“Huh? Oh, great, thanks,” she murmurs, snatching them from his hand; despite the protection of the glove, a weak electric charge still zips through the metal and stings his hand. Will winces.

“You don’t explain anything!” he protests. “You’re just running around doing whatever - in _my_ house!”

She freezes, scissors in hand, then turns to him slowly.

“...What do you mean?”

“You could have asked me to help shut the windows,” Will says. “Or told me why you need those scissors. Or explained what the hell happened between you and Dorian back there!”

Evelyn stares at him, silent. Her expression is hard to read.

“I’m not _dumb_ , Evelyn. And you know it, because we’ve been on missions together, so stop treating me like it.”

“...You’re right,” she says after a moment’s silence. She sets the scissors aside. “You’re right, and… I’m sorry. Guess I’m still getting used to this.”

“So am I,” he answers. “That’s alright, just… let’s try not to confuse each other with our disguises.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” she shakes her head. “I barely had any time to get to know you as Will. I just…” Evelyn laughs awkwardly. “It’s funny you mentioned Jenny, because I keep forgetting she’s not here. We’re so used to each other, I don’t even bother to finish my sentences anymore.”

Will frowns. “Now that you said it… Why isn’t she here with us, really?”

“You know Jenny doesn’t care for Association stuff,” Evelyn shrugs. “And that’s exactly what we have on our hands so far. And besides,” she shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, “If Dorian was hinting at what I think he was, if Neil’s case really is an inside job… I want her to know as little as possible.”

She looks up at him, serious. “I strongly recommend you to do the same, by the way. If you have any confidants - anyone outside the Association who knows your second identity, - don’t tell them anything. Especially if the Association has their name.” Evelyn tilts her head to the side. “Do you have anyone like that?”

Will hesitates to answer for a good while, but eventually gives in - Evelyn has just been open and honest with him, and it would be only fitting to do the same.

“I do have… someone,” he says. Another moment of hesitation, but he powers through: “...Not registered.”

To his surprise, Evelyn only nods:

“Smart. Risky for you, but safer for them.”

“What about you?” he asks, suddenly curious. She laughs:

“Oh, it’s just Jenny for me. And now you too, I guess,” she adds, “Even though we’re colleagues.”

He finds himself smiling unwillingly at the notion. Evelyn picks up the scissors again, looks at the blades for a moment, then says:

“Sera.”

“...What?”

“That’s Jenny. Her real name.” She glances up at him. “I don’t think she would object. She already knows you’re Will, so it only makes sense.”

“...Oh. Huh.” Will scratches the back of his head, unsure what to do with the new information. “Thank you.”

Suddenly, his hand drops. “Wait!... Does that mean I can meet her out of costume?!”

Evelyn smiles. “If you want to, and she agrees? Sure. Just like normal people.”

“That’s so cool,” he whispers. She laughs:

“Look at you all starry-eyed! Why didn’t Lightning get this reaction?”

“Well, I’m not _related_ to Jenny,” he says, then narrows his eyes. “Or?...”

It takes a moment for Evelyn to realize the meaning of his words; a few tiny sparks fly off her face, which, judging by her expression, is the closest she can get to blushing.

“Oh no-no-no-no-no! We’re not there yet,” she says hurriedly. Will chuckles and pats her on the back:

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to fluster you so much.”

Evelyn regains her composure quickly, and rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. You wanted to hear an explanation, right? So sit and listen.”

 


	8. Answers and questions

“...Well,” Evelyn begins, spinning the scissors in her hands, “As you probably figured out already, we’re not that clueless about Neilar’s disappearance. Dorian’s been chasing him for a month now, not without mine and Sera’s help; we had some leads, some of them extremely worrying.”

Will leans forward. “Like what?”

“You see, Neil didn’t just up and vanish,” she says. “A couple of weeks after Corypheus, he was sent on a mission, completely alone, and all of his orders classified. He contacted Dorian every now and then, but all he said about his whereabouts was extremely vague. I didn’t think much of it, the Association sometimes goes overboard with conspiracy and Neilar has done solo operations before, but…”

Evelyn falls silent for a moment; when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, with a worried undertone.

“One day, he didn’t report back. We waited and waited, and… Nothing. Two weeks passed before we finally got confirmation he was still alive: some guy spotted him west of the Orlesian border. Obviously, we contacted the nearest Association base, and they sent agents, but the moment he noticed them he just… ran.”

She shakes her head.

“This was the last time anyone has seen him - before Viscount. Dorian had a theory that something went wrong on the mission. That Neilar ran away because he couldn’t trust the agents. He wouldn’t tell me why - but he told me a couple of days later that he had arranged a backup, in case anything happens to him. And sweet Maker, did it happen,” she concludes bitterly, pointing the scissor blades at the suit. “So here we are.”

Will follows the shining blade with his eyes, squinting when it reflects Lightning’s glow right at him.

“Wait… The suit’s the backup? Is there some hidden message, or code, or?...”

Evelyn shrugs. “No idea. Let’s find out, shall we?”

The next couple of minutes go by slowly as Will watches her rummage through the suit’s pockets, then start feeling the fabric itself, then turn the suit inside out; he makes an attempt to offer help at one point, but Evelyn just waves him off. Finally, her efforts bear results: a close inspection of the jacket reveals a barely noticeable bump in the lining.

“Aha!” she exclaims, victorious, and with a grin cuts the jacket wide open - maybe a little too enthusiastically; the scissors rip the fabric more than cut it, and a small rectangular shape tumbles out and onto the floor. Will catches it mid-air and looks closer at his find.

“It’s a flash drive,” he announces, holding it up.

“Huh.” Evelyn glances back at the butchered suit. “Part of me expected something more impressive. A secret code, maybe, or an ancient artifact.”

“Did you expect fireworks to fly out too?” he laughs.

“Listen, he was very dramatic about that backup.” Evelyn throws the scissors onto the pile of sparkling fabric - Maker, all that glitter is on his couch now, - and stands up. “I do hope you have a laptop here.”

Will grins. “That I do.”

 

The disk contains a single folder, titleless, and a text file labeled simply: “For Evelyn”.

“Seems like this is for you,” he states the obvious, handing the laptop over to her. “Evelyn, huh? I’ve only ever heard him call you Lightning.”

“Well, he’s only ever heard me call you Shining Shield.” The screen flickers as she opens the file, and her expression becomes at once focused. She reads quickly through whatever’s in the file, then sighs quietly.

“...Dorian sure does like his dramatic flair. Well,” Evelyn glances at Will above the screen, “That confirms my suspicions. He left us some of the Association’s dirty laundry to dig through… Here, take a look.” She pushes the laptop to him across the coffee table, with Dorian’s message still open.

 

**_Dear Lightning,_ **

**_If you are reading this, then something must have happened to me, as I had suspected it may. Whoever is responsible of Neilar’s disappearing, I firmly believe it is their work as well._ **

**_Within this folder, you will find all the material on our last mission that I have been able to acquire or copy. Hopefully, it should assist you to get at least one of us out of this mess._ **

**_Pray do not share this information with other agents or even fellow heroes. This would put you in a rather unfortunate situation, as approximately zero of these files are legally acquired._ **

**_I’ve been assured every file will only open once before it will be erased from your device forever; do take notes._ **

**_Focus on helping Neilar; he needs you the most. If I am still alive, I will manage on my own; if I am dead, then there is hardly anything that can be done for me anymore - though I do expect the most grand and luxurious funeral, and a tear-jerking speech._ **

**_And tell him…_ **

**_Never mind. That is a whole different letter._ **

 

**_I wish you the best of luck, Evelyn. Be wary, and do not be next._ **

**_(possibly former) Agent of the T.S.A, Dorian Pavus_ **

 

Will whistles quietly.

“That guy was sure he’s going to die. Makes you wonder what they were working on.”

“We are about to find out,” Evelyn says, taking the laptop back; Will starts to huddle closer to her, but suddenly she frowns and shakes her head.

“Will…  Maybe he’s right, and you shouldn’t see these.”

“What?” He stares at her in disbelief. “No! I need to know.”

“And what if it’s dangerous?”

“Then I need to know even more!” Will crosses his arms, trying to appear as serious and competent as possible. “I’m a superhero just like you, and… also, I’m older.”

Evelyn stares at him for a moment, then lets out a long sigh.

“...Fine.”

Will leans closer in anticipation.

The next hour or so goes by as Evelyn reads meticulously through each of the files; there’s fewer of them than he expected, not even ten, but she goes over each at least twice, frowning and muttering to herself, and then dictates to him notes that Will doesn’t even understand half the time - all codes and ciphers, obviously familiar to her, but not to himself.

“You know,” he says, writing out what feels like the twentieth sequence of numbers already, “I thought discovering the Association’s dirty secrets will be more exciting than this.”

“Oh, trust me, we’re not even halfway through.” Evelyn replies, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Which is probably why none of this makes any sense so far.”

“Oh, so I’m not the only one! Good to know you don’t understand what AW34S1 is either.”

“That’s the code for a section in the Arbor Wilds." She glances up at him. "It’s not the numbers, Will. It’s what they mean.”

“If only I knew what they mean,” he says sarcastically. Evelyn sighs.

“Wish I could tell you. This is clearly documentation for a set of operations, but I don’t think my interpretation is right. It says several ‘agents’ have been sent to retrieve technology from Corypheus’ bases, but the date - here, look,” she turns the screen to him, pointing at a number in the corner of a black-and-white sheet. ”It’s been issued six months ago. By this time, Corypheus was dead, and all of his equipment confiscated and destroyed. There was nothing left to retrieve.”

“And you’re sure of it, because?...”

“Because I took part in the operation myself,” she says, frowning. “...And so did Neilar and Dorian.”

Suddenly, Evelyn gasps:

“Wait! Give me the notebook for a second.”

Will hands the it over to her, several pages’ worth of notes on the files already erased. She flips through and stops on the list of codes Will referred to earlier - three numbers paired with three sequences of digits and letters.

“That’s it!” she whispers, looking up at Will. “The codes to the right are for locations, that I knew. I thought the ones on the left were for teams, or agents, but, Will - they’re superheroes!”

“What in the - ?” He leans over to see as well, wincing briefly at his own smudged handwriting; not his proudest work of penmanship. “How did you know?”

“Personal numbers. We don’t use them as much as agents do, Void, I don’t even remember mine - but they’re all ten-digit, while agents have twelve.” Evelyn points to the number left to the Arbor Wilds code. “This one has to be Neilar. This area is just north of where he was spotted. It’s pretty well known because of a strange phenomenon that keeps happening there, and…” She freezes. “...And there were rumours of Corypheus researching it.”

 

The next couple of documents are read through in a much more agitated, though just as thorough manner; intent on deciphering the other two personal numbers on the list, Evelyn eventually identifies one of them as a temporary “volunteer badge”; when Will gives her a puzzled look, she explains:

“These are used for superhumans outside the Association. Usually, vigilantes who join forces with us against local supervillains.”

“Like Jenny,” he guesses, and Evelyn nods:

“Right! Though she’s registered as my companion, so sometimes we both go by my number, as one unit.”

Will sighs. “After a year, you’d think I should know at least some of this stuff.”

“Not really. You’re still a newbie, so Seeker handles your paperwork; in a year or two, if you won’t quit, you’ll be writing these reports together with your official agent.”

It feels weird to think about it; Will knows Seeker is only assigned to him until he signs a permanent contract with the Association, but he’s grown so used to her over last year’s course, it’s hard to imagine working with anyone else.

“...Maker, that’s a lot to handle.”

“Don’t worry,” Evelyn says cheerfully, and pats him on the back. “You’ll get used to it. What’s weird,” she frowns again, continuing as if the small tangent never happened, “Is that they took a volunteer at all. Why involve people from outside if the operation is so discreet?”

“Maybe they needed her powers,” Will suggests; now that they knew the numbers stood for people, it was easy to spot various remarks and footnotes referring to the two unidentified numbers as “she” and “her”.

Evelyn hums in response, seemingly deep in thought.

“...Maybe,” she says at last, reluctant. “And the second hero as well, then? I’m ninety nine percent sure she wasn’t at Dumat Labs; I know all the female heroes who were there.”

Will shrugs. “Don’t ask me. We still have one file left, right? Maybe it will have some answers.”

“Maybe,” Evelyn repeats with a sigh. “But I bet it’s just another report.” She clicks on the last icon remaining in the folder, and they’re immediately presented with another black-and-white sheet, the familiar codes bolded among the text. Evelyn, however, seems to notice something new among them.

“...Or not,” she murmurs. Will leans closer to see what caught her attention, but doesn’t notice any differences from the other documents; luckily, Evelyn spares him from appearing incompetent again by pointing out a ten-number sequence at the top of the sheet:

“See that? That’s the reporting unit. That’s _her_ report. She wrote this.”

Even after more than an hour of perusing through these codes, he still can’t remember which personal number is which. So much for competence.

“...The volunteer or the superhero?”

“The superhero.” Evelyn leans closer to the screen, scrolling through. “Let’s see _who_ you’re reporting to, though…”

Suddenly, her glowing eyes go wide.

“Holy shit.”

To hear her swear - to hear _Lightning_ swear, even mildly, - is so odd that Will even forgets to ask what she found. In the next moment, however, the unspoken question answers itself, as Evelyn whispers:

“Will... That’s Varric’s number.”

 


	9. A way out

_ The world is falling apart. _

_ The ground trembles beneath his feet, and the walls vibrate violently, threatening to collapse any second now. He clings to the rusted, beaten-up computer terminal for dear life, clutching its edge with one hand and feverishly typing with the other. Menus, buttons and lines of code, blurred and jumbled, dance jittering before his eyes - excruciatingly familiar, but completely alien at the same time. He’s operated them before, he is sure of that; he’s been there, and managed to get out, so why in the world can’t he understand a single word? _

_ A terrible shriek pierces the air, ringing even above the rumbling of the earth, and a winged abomination of a creature swoops towards him, talons outstretched. He all but flattens himself against the machine, fingers still on the keyboard, typing blindly, hopelessly, stumbling through a sort of a prayer. _

_ Thunder cracks, and a blast of red energy shoots the creature down. _

_ “You’re running out of time!” Lightning cries out, voice strained in pain as the crystals embedded into her flesh drain another bit of her energy. “Hurry!” _

**_I’m trying,_ ** _ Dorian wants to scream, but his voice remains silent; he tries to guide his gaze back to the screen, but it drifts down and to the right, focusing on Gereon Alexius’ lifeless corpse leaning against the terminal. _

**_Why did you have to do this? I can’t - I don’t know - why did you have to die?!_ **

_ He keeps staring at the body, and it stares back. Suddenly, it opens its mouth, and croaks: _

_ “Wake up, Sparkler...” _

_ And with that, the cracks in the floor explode, and he is sent flying into a pitch black abyss. _

_ His last thought is short and absurdly out of place, but for some reason it fills him with more dread than the mutant creatures, or Alexius, or the overwhelming darkness: _

**_Where’s Shadow?_ **

 

White fluorescent light flushes his vision the moment Dorian wakes up. He groans and raises a hand to his eyes, shielding himself from the insufferable brightness; his shoulders and back respond with immediate dull pain.

“Good morning,” says the voice of Alexius’ corpse - except, in reality, it does not belong to his deceased mentor, but to a colleague and a friend.

“Well, technically it’s still night,” Varric adds, “But given the circumstances, that’s the best morning we get.”

“Oh, for the love of Andraste,” he murmurs and sits up. Seems like, somehow, he’s managed to fall asleep on the sorry excuse of a bed provided in a temporary confinement cell… No wonder his entire body is aching. “Spare me the flowery descriptions. What’s the matter?”

“The matter is, we’ve got a problem.”

Dorian’s vision finally comes to proper focus, and he manages to make out the other’s figure behind the glass wall. Varric’s side of the room is completely dark; his appearance is only illuminated by the light within the cell, but it is enough to see he’s exhausted. Dorian can sympathize, though he has a creeping suspicion his own exterior is currently looking much worse.

He forces a smile.

“Has Agent Nightingale found more nonexistent evidence to prove my guilt?”

Varric shakes his head. “Worse. My sources told me she’s handing the case over to internal affairs. They sent a guy… Agent Rutherford. Cullen.”

Dorian frowns; the name is vaguely familiar, but his still-shaken memory struggles to reach the relevant information.

“I know him, I think. Is he a notorious one?”

“We used to work together.”

By the reserved tone which sneaks into Varric’s speech, Dorian can already guess where and when - but his friend’s next words still catch him by surprise.

“He was Meredith Stannard’s second-in-command, back in Kirkwall.”

Now the dots connect: the name “Rutherford” has appeared in reports and even on the news, after the infamous Kirkwall incident six years ago. Two years into his training, Dorian has been forced, along with other junior agents, to meticulously study the case - a guilty campaign, meant to assure they never repeated the mistakes of the Kirkwall agents. Remarkably, none of their superiors ever managed to provide a consistent account of what exactly those mistakes were.

“He quit after the Red Knight incident, but they’ve convinced him to return a couple of years ago. A mistake, if you ask me,” Varric says. “He had so much faith in Meredith. His boss, an upstanding agent, going supervillain… It messed him up. He hasn’t been able to fully trust anyone since. They say it’s good for his new job, but what it really means is he’s obsessed. If Nightingale presents the case to him the way she did to us - ”

“He will jump at the opportunity to catch a traitor before he does the same damage as Stannard,” Dorian concludes bitterly. “Well… Thank you for the information.”

Suddenly, a thought comes to mind; he narrows his eyes at the other agent.

“Varric, that source of yours - is it?...”

Varric nods.

“Do you mean to tell me - does this mean  _ she’s _ in town?”

“She decided to come by when I told her we’ve found Shadow. I tried to convince her otherwise, but...” Varric sighs. “Yeah, she’s in town, for now. But she’ll be leaving soon, and this is why I’m here, Sparkler.”

“So you did not come here just to tell me Cullen Rutherford is coming for my neck?”

“Nope. I have some good news too,” Varric says, “And those news are, I have some friends in the tech department. Right now, one of those friends has all the cameras and sensors on a very specific route throughout the TC section, leading from the entrance right to your cell. Thanks to that, nobody knows I took that route, and if, by accident, you were to...” He motions with his eyes towards the door in the back end of the chamber on his side. “Take that route as well… Nobody would notice either. Maybe you were snatched away by the same thing that took Shadow. Who knows?”

“I think I’m following your line of thought so far,” Dorian says slowly. “And where would I be snatched away to?”

“Well...” Varric shrugs. “As I said, Rina’s leaving town. I don’t see any reason you can’t tag along; she’ll keep you out of sight, and if she’s determined to find Neilar, I dare say she’ll do better with your help.”

“So, I vanish in the middle of the night and travel with your best friend, going rogue and searching for Neilar with nothing but her connections and my wit.”

“You say this like it’s not much.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Compliment noted. However, I would do so at the cost of possibly compromising you, and definitely diverting part of the Association’s attention from looking for Shadow to catching me. Not to mention that a sudden escape would be quite a good confirmation of my guilt.”

Varric stares at him for a moment, silent. Dorian can read the bafflement on his face.

“Sparkler… You want to  _ trust the Association? _ ”

“In regards to my fate? Absolutely not. However,” he says quietly, “I do trust their determination to find him. Their reasons are horrible, and I will fight to the death to keep Neilar out of their hands, if needed - but I know they will stop at nothing to locate him, and I know they will do so faster than I ever could. By escaping, I would slow their search - and I would steal precious time from him. Trust me, I’ve thought up several escape plans, but… I can’t do this to him, Varric.”

“And how will you fight them from in here, exactly?” Varric asks; Dorian notices he is growing nervous, and there is a clear urgency to his voice. Seems like the escape route he’s planned has a time limit. “How will you even know when they’ll find him?”

“Oh, this part is simple. I will convince ser Rutherford of my innocence, and join the investigation.”

“Sparkler - ” Varric hangs his head down and sighs. “Were you not listening to me at all?”

“I were, and once again, thank you.” Dorian stands up and approaches the glass. “This information has been most helpful. In fact, if you can afford it, I will ask you for some more.”

Varric gives him a curious look.

“Sure.”

“Professor Solas,” he says. “I have never met him before, but I’ve a feeling that you have. Tell me about him.”

The curiosity in Varric’s expression turns into confusion.

“That feeling of yours is right,” he says, “But… Why? He’s just a science guy.”

_ So is Alexius, _ Dorian thinks.  _ So was I. _

“A hunch,” he answers.

 


	10. Night walk

“You know,” Will says, “This really doesn’t play into the heartfelt conversation we had yesterday. The one about treating each other as equals, and doing things like sharing information.”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow:

“Do you want me to actually answer this?” 

“Oh, no. No, it’s fine. Except the part when you made that face and said  _ Will, I solved the mystery! _ \- and walked away! But it’s all good, right? Really, why should the shield guy know anything?” 

He crosses his arms. 

“I’m just here for hitting things, after all, and it’s not like we’re related by blood or anything - ” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” she interrupts him, “You’re offended. Sorry, but...” Evelyn sighs. “Listen - I stand by my words, I am going to tell you everything from now on, but - this one’s complicated. Also, I definitely didn’t say  _ “I solved the mystery”  _ yesterday.”

“You  _ basically _ said it.”

“I - you’re wrong, but I’m not going to waste my time arguing about it.” Evelyn looks him over. “I assume you’re good to go?”

“Well, yes. You told me to be ready. Eight hours ago. Before you walked away without explaining - ”

“ _ Will! _ ”

“Alright, alright, that was too much,” he admits, raising his arms up. “Fine. I’m dropping it. I’ve dropped it. It’s on the floor somewhere.” He giggles at his own joke.

Evelyn leans forward and squints slightly, studying his face; Will watches as her expression falls into a frown, and she steps back.

“...Have you slept at all?” Evelyn asks. 

Will shakes his head, and does his best to ignore the concerned stare it earns him. Well, he would like to see  _ her  _ try and fall asleep after a day like the one he’s had yesterday. Discovering his own cousin is a superhero  _ and _ unravelling an actual conspiracy? That’s enough to blow anyone’s mind. 

After discovering Varric’s ID number in one of the reports, they painstakingly read through the report, but found nothing more interesting; the same codes and locations, “no new findings, requesting permission to advance”. Evelyn seemed shaken, but less so than Will expected; having recovered from the initial surprise, she didn’t say much on the matter except that they need more information.

“You could… ask him about it?” he suggested then, already suspecting the idea wasn’t great. 

“Why not! I’m sure he would tell me  _ everything _ ,” Evelyn replied sarcastically. “Maybe he’ll tell us where Neil is, too.” 

In hindsight, maybe the discovery did worry her as much as he thought it did.

Having discovered Varric's involvement, they spent the next few hours going over their notes, marking connections. Evelyn pulled up a map on her phone, and with some exercise of memory they’ve been able to reconstruct some of the three heroes’ movements - though Will suspected they messed one of those up; Shadow’s and the mysterious female hero’s paths turned out nice and linear, while the volunteer’s was just… all over the place, zipping sometimes from country to country. Either they made some mistakes, or she was a damn powerful teleport. 

Some of the locations the three visited were known to have some interest for Corypheus - Redcliffe, Therinfal, the Wilds. Others were just patches of wilderness; they assumed them to be just stops on the way to the next point, up until Evelyn noticed a reference to a “full investigation report” of one of those in the file with Varric’s number on it. The report itself was not incuded.

Nothing in Dorian’s files betrayed the two heroines’ identities, or any specific goals besides searching for nonexistent technology. All reports stated “no progress has been made”, or “no findings retrieved”, or something like that - but no indication of what  _ progress  _ even means. 

By the time they had to wrap up for the day, it was seven in the afternoon, and Evelyn had to go because she had dinner with his parents. They were both tired and exasperated, and had no other leads.

“Evelyn,” Will said, as the glow of her stabilizing collar died down. “I know it sucks to find out Varric’s been keeping secrets from you. I know it will be awful and probably dangerous to ask him about it, but… We have no other leads.”

“That’s not true,” she said, and  - probably seeing the confusion on his face, - added:

“I do have a lead. I think I know the hero who wrote the report.”

“You  _ what?!  _ And you just kept silent about it the entire day?”

“ _ I think, _ ” Evelyn repeated, with pressure, “That I know who she is. I may be wrong. And if I am right, reaching her without alerting Varric is going to be a nightmare, so I hoped we’d find something else. Anyone else. I hoped…” She sighed. “I hoped it wasn’t what Dorian wanted to show me.”

Before Will could say anything else, Evelyn glanced at her watch and announced she was already running late. Already heading to the door, she suddenly stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.

“There’s a good chance I’m going to call you later tonight, so be ready to head out,” she said. “Also, probably get some sleep.”

Then she turned away and left, ignoring all of his questions. Needless to say, zero of the following hours were used for sleep; his best attempt to rest turned into staring mindlessly at the ceiling, running the day’s events through his head, the evening’s news program chattering in the background. They mentioned the highway accident at some point, the one with the Association van, though nothing about the missing passengers or the dead driver, of course.

Maker… It was hard to believe this happened just today.

The waiting quickly turned annoying, and then insufferable. It didn’t take him long to exhaust all the petty distractions the confines of his apartment had to offer - chores, social media, small mindless tasks none of which lasted. He couldn’t even work out, forbidden from exercise for the day by the Association medic who looked him over after the scramble with Shadow. 

Soon enough, Will found himself pacing from room to room, and even returning to the damn notebook he and Evelyn tormented for the better part of the day. The scribbled words seemed meaningless now, even though it was him who wrote them down and studied them for hours. None of this was worth anything, because he didn’t have some hidden knowledge Evelyn - Lightning, - possessed. 

_ Sure, keep your secrets, mysterious cousin.  _

The call caught him slowly nodding off to sleep on the couch, tiny remains of the gittery suit still scattered around. Will stumbled up and grabbed the phone, nearly overturning the coffee table by accident. Evelyn’s voice in the speakers was not entirely clear and short of breath, as if she was walking. Judging by the sound of passing cars, she was out on the street.

“I’m heading to your place,” she said instead of a greeting. “Be ready to go out; civilian clothes, no costume, no shield. I set us up on a date.”

“At three in the morning?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Four in the morning. See you!”

And this is how he ended up with Evelyn on his doorstep, a couple of hours away from dawnbreak. She seems unfazed by the late hour, perfectly focused; she switched the pink hoodie for a denim jacket, and tied her hair back, revealing an of earring in the shape of a bee in each ear.

“You look…” It takes him a second to find a fitting word. “Energetic.”

“Well,  _ someone’s _ got to be,” Evelyn replies without batting an eyelash. “And it’s clearly not going to be you.”

“You’re underestimating my power. Anyway… Where are we going?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you hear me over the phone? On a date.”

“And now seriously?”

“Seriously, we’re going to meet a suspect in some ominous dark alleyway.” 

Will narrows his eyes, suspicious. “And you want me to leave the shield behind?”

“Exactly. What? If things go south, you’ll still have your fists. And me,” Evelyn taps the already familiar metallic necklace. “We leave our weapons behind as a gesture of goodwill, alright?”

He sighs. “...Fine. Are you going to tell me who are we meeting, or? - ”

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” she replies; Will can swear the knowing smile accompanying these words is entirely intentional. “Also, if I tell you now, you will waste the next hour asking me questions about it.”

“This is so unfair.”

Evelyn shrugs. “Maybe so. So, are we fighting about this for fifteen more minutes, or do we go save a friend?”

Will steps out and reaches for his keys to close the apartment door.

“I thought so,” Evelyn says behind his back.

 

They pass through empty dark streets, one more lifeless than the other. Evelyn’s wearing heels, and Will can’t help but wince every time they hit the pavement; the small knocks against the stone sound almost deafening in the silence surrounding them. 

_ Her fashion choices are announcing our presence to every single enemy in a sixty foot radius.  _

“You know,” she says suddenly, as if in response to his thoughts, “I used to know a heroine who took night strolls like this all the time. She would put on her high heel shoes and walk out to the street, in the absolute worst hours.” Evelyn chuckles. “There was always some trashbag that heard footsteps in high heels, in the middle of the night, and thought it was his lucky day. Sometimes, there were multiple in one night. They flocked to her, and she dispatched them, one by one.”

Suddenly, Will feels very glad he didn’t announce his opinions of Evelyn’s footwear out loud. 

“...So this is why you wear heels, too?” he asks.

“More or less. Jenny - Sera -  thinks it’s silly, and we should just hunt those guys down, but... I think night walks have their charm. Next time they hear a girl walk by, they’ll mind their own business not because I might come after them, but because she might  _ be _ me.” She glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Feel the difference? A whole different kind of fear.”

“That’s… yeah. I can see that. Wow.”

Evelyn’s lips curve into a smile.

“Thanks. I’m glad you approve.” It’s impossible to tell whether she’s serious or not. “That’s something Varric and I have in common, I guess; we both love our mind games.” Her smile disappears. “...Except his games are usually all about lying.”

“And yours are about… intimidation?” 

“I’d say, giving a change of perspective.”

They turn to a narrow back alley, the exact kind Will would call “ominous” - there are brick walls lined with garbage bins and covered with graffiti, card boxes scattered on the ground.

“Please don’t tell me this is our destination,” he says. Evelyn shakes her head.

“Just a shortcut.”

“Good,” Will replies, or, rather,  _ tries to _ \- because in the next moment a wave of cold bursts inside him, burning the air out of his lungs. 

He coughs and folds; as his head drops on the impact, his surroundings light up with blue.

_ Evelyn? -  _

No; the light is coming from him. From his chest, to be precise, where from a glowing vortex emerges the shape of a hand. A hand going right through his chest.

_ Evelyn! - _

“If I were you,” an unfamiliar voice says; male, low with an underlying growl, “I would not move right now.”

Sound advice, especially considering Will wouldn’t be able to move even if he wanted to; his entire body feels petrified, either with fear or the abilities of the superhuman holding him. Both his heart and mind are racing at a thousand miles per hour; he can’t see Evelyn from his position, but he doesn’t hear the familiar electric hum, or see her light. She didn’t remove the collar. Why? Is somebody holding her too?

Then, he hears her let out a quiet sigh. 

“Hello, Fenris,” Evelyn says. “Would you please release my cousin?”

There is a moment of silence. Then, the glowing hand withdraws back into Will’s chest; his insides freeze once more, and then the horrible feeling is gone, and he can breathe again.

He collapses, gasping for air and feeling the heat slowly return to his body.

“I  _ warned  _ you,” Will hears Evelyn’s voice. “For Maker’s sake, Fenris, I specifically told you I was bringing somebody else with me so you would not rip his heart out!”

_ “Rip his heart out?”...  _

A nervous laugh escapes him. 

_ “Rip his heart out.” Rip  _ **_my_ ** _ heart out! _

“As a matter of fact, I did not,” the man called Fenris answers, with a hint of a smile in his voice.

Will pulls himself together and straightens, turning around to finally face his attacker.

Fenris turns out to be shorter than him, standing at about Evelyn’s height; it’s hard to tell for sure, because he is currently leaning against the wall, his dark grey clothes contrasting with the colorful splatter of graffiti behind his back. His hair is snow white, stark against his darker skin, and he was smiling just a second ago - but the moment his gaze meets Will’s, his expression locks into a frown. 

Will’s attention, however, lies entirely elsewhere.

“Lyrium Ghost,” he whispers, unable to tear his eyes away from the markings on Fenris’ face, neck and even his arms - evident thanks to the fact one of his sleeves is rolled back, - glowing dim blue in the dark.

“This is what some people call me, yes.”

“Lyrium Ghost,” Will repeats, dumbstruck. “You - you are - sweet Andraste, all this talk of ripping hearts out makes sense now!”

It’s somewhat difficult to breathe again; not because of cold or pain, but because Will fears he might squeal like a schoolgirl if he doesn’t watch himself.

_ Calm down, Will, deep breaths. No big deal, you only just almost had yout heart ripped out by one of the coolest superheroes in existence -  _

“How on earth do you know Lyrium Ghost?!” he exclaims, turning to Evelyn and realizing from the way she flinches that he probably shouldn’t have yelled that. 

“...Sorry,” he mumbles.

“For the record: one repetition of the name is more than enough,” Ghost says.

“...Oh. Um, sorry again. So… Fenris?”

“That will certainly do.”

For an extremely awkward moment, Will has no idea what to do with himself. Luckily, Evelyn comes to the rescue:

“I didn’t expect to meet you here,” she says. “Were you following us?”

“Just keeping an eye out for trouble. We didn’t expect to hear from you today either.” 

Fenris’ expression barely changes as he says this, but Will notices that his eyes dart from Evelyn to him for a split second, and then back to her.

Then it hits him.

_ Wait… “We”?!  _

“It’s an emergency,” Evelyn replies. “I assume you have heard by now that Shadow is missing. If I’m not mistaken, you and Rina worked with him recently, correct?”

Fenris raises his eyebrows. Evelyn stares back at him. Neither of them blink. Then, Fenris shrugs and begins walking.

“Follow me,” he throws behind his back as he passes Will.

“You heard him,” Evelyn says, cheerful.

Will takes a step forward with extreme caution; his head is spinning. 

Evelyn glances him over.

“Are you alright?” 

“Rina, as in… Rina Hawke?” he asks quietly.

She nods.

“Now you understand why I couldn’t just tell you everything?”

Will nods too, weakly.

“Good. Sorry again for that. Now,” she pats him on the shoulder, “Pick your jaw up from the ground and let’s go meet the Champion of Kirkwall.”


	11. Champion

Following Fenris’ lead, Will suddenly realizes he begins to recognize some of the buildings; it’s the neighborhood Iseran lives in, the very edge. At first he thinks they’re just going to pass it by, but Fenris heads straight for the apartment buildings - one of them specifically.

_The Champion of Kirkwall lives in the same neighborhood as my boyfriend. There’s probably some profound “the world is a small place” idea in this._

An ordinary entrance, an empty staircase. A simple door with a faded metal number on it.

Fenris knocks, and, a couple of seconds later, the door opens.

The first thing Will sees are the eyes; not just blue, but a bright cyan, glowig faintly in the dim light just like Fenris’ own markings before. Around them, strands of red hair, and beneath them, a smile; a toned-down replica of the fierce grin so familiar to him from posters and news reports.

It’s probably rude to stare, but he can’t help it - right now, he’s an arm’s reach away from one of the few superheroes outside of Tevinter who never concealed their identity. The Champion of Kirkwall; to some a public menace and a glorified vigilante, and to some - including Will himself - a literal legend.

Right now, she’s standing in the doorway of a painfully normal apartment, wearing a pastel sweater instead of a purple mask over her eyes and a supersuit, and she’s looking right at him.

It’s terrifying.

He’s not sure whether it’s good or bad when her attention switches to Evelyn.

“Lightning! Evelyn! It’s good to see you,” she says; Evelyn responds with a reserved nod, and the glowing eyes return to Will. “...And you must be our reinforcement. Shining Shield, right?”

“I - ” his voice cracks suddenly; Will clears his throat. “ - Yes. I’m… It’s an honor to meet you,” he manages.

“The feeling is mutual! I heard you did a great job in Viscount - ”

“Hawke,” Fenris says quietly.

“- Oh. Right.” She steps aside. “Come in; we can have that conversation inside.”

The apartment beyond the door is way too plain to be a permanent dwelling place; it figures. He wouldn’t expect the Champion to just be living next door - though that would be beyond awesome, - not after what happened.

Hawke walks them to the kitchen and sits them down at a round dining table; Fenris doesn’t follow. Will hears the sound of a door locking as they’re being led away.

Hawke leans back on the counter, arms crossed.

“So… First of all, I would very much like to know what brings you two here.”

“The Viscount case,” Evelyn replies. “I assume you’re caught up on the details.”

There’s just a hint of bitterness to her voice, but Hawke catches it; her brow furrows slightly, but it’s the only change to her expression.

“It’s _the Viscount case_ now, huh… Did Varric fill you in on this? Or did the Association? - ”

“Oh, I’m afraid not.”

Now this is the real surprise, and the look on Hawke’s face confirms it.

“Then how?...”

“Dorian,” Evelyn says simply. “Neilar’s gone, he’s locked up, and whatever you all were doing behind my back caused this. Can you really blame him for reaching out to someone more dependable?”

Hawke sighs.

“This,” she says, “Is the exact reason why we’ll never be working together, Evelyn.”

“...Aren’t you supposed to be gone?” Will blurts out, surprising even himself. All heads in the room turn to him immediately; he suppresses the urge to press against the chair and pull his neck in, trying to disappear. Instead, he meets their eyes bravely, like a real hero should.

Hawke _is_ supposed to be gone. Her entire group is gone; disbanded, after one of their members turned out to be a terrorist. They were supposed to be just suspended - but not even twenty-four hours passed since the incident, and, disobeying direct orders, Hawke showed up at the Association’s base, revealing its commander, Agent Stannard, as the elusive supervillain Red Knight. There was a battle - it took all the available teams, including Hawke’s, to finally put Stannard down, - and after it, before she could be prosecuted for her actions, Hawke disappeared. The Association denounced her, and fired everyone who could have been, even in theory, complacent with the deceased commander.

Hawke is supposed to be _gone_. She isn’t supposed to be part of any Association project or mission; she’s supposed to be judged as a criminal if they ever find her. So why is she here, in the middle of Ostwick, why is her personal code in Association papers and why is she talking to Evelyn like an old friend?

She glances at his cousin.

“...How much does he know, exactly?”

“About you and us?” Evelyn asks. “Nothing yet. I, uh… I thought I’d let you do the explaining.”

“How generous of you.” Hawke raises an eyebrow. She turns to him again. “Well, alright. Shining Shield - ”

“Will,” Evelyn says quietly.

“Oh, so we’re fine with names? Should’ve told me. Now I just look like an idiot.’

“That’s fine,” he says weakly.

“Thanks, Will,” Hawke smiles at him briefly. “But anyway - the thing is - while the Association made sure to get very mad at me in public, they… forgot to revoke my membership, so to say.”

“They didn’t forget mine,” Fenris says; Will jumps in his seat, only now noticing him leaning against the wall opposite of Hawke - not much unlike in the alley where they met.

_When did he come in?!_

“Isabela’s too. And you bet they didn’t forget Anders,” she says grimly.

_Isabela… the Two-Fanged Fury’s name is Isabela? The things I’m learning today…_

The second name doesn’t surprise him. In six years, little personal information on the Spirit Of Justice remained secret; makes sense, with half of Thedas trying to hunt him down. Personally, Will always thought he fled to Tevinter; those guys would welcome him with open arms.

“...So, technically,” Hawke continues, “I’m still a member, and - not just technically, - Varric is still my agent.”

_...Still?_

She reads the question in his expression before Will even opens his mouth, and so does Evelyn; they both speak at the same time.

“The thing is - ”

“Varric - ”

Then, both fall silent and exchange looks.

“Varric’s been Rina’s agent for her entire career as Champion,” Evelyn says.

“He _made_ me Champion,” Hawke corrects her quietly.

“Varric was the one who put our team together,” Fenris says from his corner. “We owe much to him.”

This… doesn’t make sense at all.

“Wait, but you - ”

Hawke became Champion long before the Association even mentioned building a base in Kirkwall. Everybody knows that. Her team single-handedly protected the peace in the city, shaky as it was, for six entire years before that happened. Some would say the base, and the conscription of Kirkwall’s protectors, ruined everything.

“They were there before the Association,” Evelyn finishes the sentence for him. “That’s right.”

“This is what they would have you believe, at least,” Hawke murmurs.

“...Well, yes,” Evelyn admits. “Technically - _technically_ \- they’ve been members from the beginning. You see, the Association wanted to advance to Kirkwall for years, but with it being such an awful place for superhumans - ”

“You mean a shithole,” Hawke says.

“Dumpster fire,” Fenris nods.

“Supervillain heaven.”

“Murder capital.”

“The worst city ever.”

“...Are you done?” Evelyn bursts.

“We could go for days, actually, but - yes. Yes, we’re done,” Hawke mutters. “Sorry.”

“ _Thank you._ ” Evelyn takes a deep breath. “So, anyway, as I was saying - we had some plans for that city, but the social climate was awful and the authorities had no interest in promoting superhumans. So we decided to take means into our own hands and create the interest ourselves - and the Association sent a team into the city to make that happen.”

“Varric wanted to create a superhero,” Hawke says. “Find someone with powers and make them the public’s favorite.” She smiles briefly. “He found me. I was looking for work. I said no and thought that’s the last I’ve seen of him, but then he recommended me to his brother as a guard, for his expedition. Things happened, and… Long story short, I changed my mind. I didn’t bother to hide my powers from family or employers, so we decided there was no point to try and keep my name secret; besides, Varric said that would be good for publicity. We would let them see superhumans are people, and all that… From that on, he and our tech expert would track down criminals, and I’d go fight them. Boom. I am the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Will blinks.

“So, it’s all been… _orchestrated_? By us?”

Evelyn shrugs:

“You could say so.”

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Looks at Hawke, Fenris, then Evelyn again.

She raises an eyebrow:

“Too much information?”

“I’m not sure why,” Will says, “but the fact you’re all so casual about it scares me more than the actual conspiracy.”

“Well,” Evelyn says - maybe it’s just his imagination, but Will hears the hint of a smile in her voice, “This is what the Association is all about. Secrets. You get used to it.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t seem this content when we were going through Dorian’s files.”

“ _That_ ,” she answers, “Was a different kind of secret. Which, now that we’ve shared this beautiful conversation, brings back us to the point of my visit.” She looks up at Hawke.

“Our visit,” Will says.

“Right. Our visit.”

Hawke meets Evelyn’s gaze calmly.

“If you have questions for me, then ask them,” she says.

Evelyn leans forward.

“I want to know what you were doing for the Association, and why I wasn’t involved in this. What you were looking for. Who’s the third hero working with you. _Everything._ ”

 


	12. Awake

He’s been floating in darkness for hours now, maybe even days, balancing on the edge between consciousness and sleep. From time to time, this balance is broken as he slips closer to one of the sides - losing track of his own thoughts and trailing off into a semblance of a dream, or suddenly becoming aware of his body’s position back in the real world, feeling a breeze on his skin for just a moment, - but each time, an unseen force reaches for him and pulls him back into the in-between.

And in-between, there are voices.

They’re constantly speaking; not even a single second of his time passes in silence. They are many, far too many for him to count, all voices different yet somehow similar. They’re saying words he knows he shouldn’t be able to understand, but he does. They speak of dreams, and of songs, and of Sorrow. They speak of falling, and waiting. They speak of serving, and they speak of unity. They speak, and they expect him to respond, but he has no voice of his own here - and so they call out for him again and again, straining their invisible throats, each time more impatient, each time more furious.

The voices hurt, and their cries chip away at him little by little. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He doesn’t remember who put him here, or why. He doesn’t know, or doesn’t remember, the way back.

For a moment, he doesn’t remember his name.

Then, the voices cry out, and the darkness is torn to shreds; he does not see by what or who, because at the exact same time the invisible force finds him again and pulls him up, up, up…

Then, for the first time in a long while, silence falls.

Slowly, his eyes blink open, and he finds himself sitting in a small, featurless room; dark, except for a white light hanging above and in front of him. _An interrogation chamber_ , he thinks; an attempt to move meets resistance at his arms and ankles, confirming this suspicion. Absurdly enough, he feels some relief; unlike the whispering  darkness, this is familiar territory. Whoever his captors are, they are human - and incompetent, since he doesn’t feel the cold pressure of a restrictor anywhere on him.

He closes his eyes, reluctantly diving back into the dark, and breathes in, preparing himself for the moment of separation. _Three, two, one, exhale -_

Two green lights pierce the blackness behind his eyelids, and the air around explodes with screams; the shadow, the part of himself he’s prepared to release, recoils and bristles and disappears, sinking, burning back into his skin.

For a moment, he’s left breathless.

Somewhere, beyond his line of sight, but close, a door opens. Footsteps echo in the small room, circling him, and a pale figure comes into sight, approaching the circle of light surrounding him. Through the stinging haze of having a shadow shoved forcefully back into the shell, he squints to take a better look at the person’s appearance. Male, middle-aged. Seemingly of a lean build, but the loose clothing makes it hard to estimate potential strength. Straight posture, calm, neutral expression. He can only assume this is his interrogator.

The man steps into the light, pulls a chair straight out of the darkness and sits down across him. Then, he says:

“Greetings, Mr. Lavellan. Can you hear me?”

He remains silent. The interrogator waits a few seconds, then nods slowly:

“You do not trust me. I understand.”

With that, the man reaches into his jacket, pulls something out and presents it to him. A piece of laminated paper - with a water mark of the Assocation’s logo across it. Neilar leans forward, and makes out the man’s photo, along with various line of text - including his name.

“I am Professor Solas,” the man says at the exact same time as he reads these words in the document. “I work for the Association, just as you do. You have suffered a peculiar trauma, and have been transferred to a secret facility for recovery. My task is to help your healing.”

He puts the ID back in his jacket.

“Now, Mr. Lavellan - or Shadow, whatever you prefer, - I need you to tell me the last thing you remember.”

“Why am I tied up?” he asks. The words come out in a low rasp.

“You have suffered the effects of mind control. A simple precaution, in case you fall to the influence again.”

“...How?”

“This is exactly what I need to determine,” the professor says.

“Where is my agent?”

Solas smiles slightly. It’s clear he’s been expecting the question.

“Agent Pavus has been notified of your transportation. He was most understanding, and I promised him I will take good care of you. I intend to stand by my word.”

“...I understand.”

Some part of him doesn’t like the sound of the professor’s words, his smile and this entire setup - but, if this is one of the Association’s schemes, it all makes perfect sense. Besides, the memory of flashing lights and disembodied voices is still fresh in his mind; it prevented him from creating a shadow. No, it _saw_ him creating a shadow and _pushed it back._ Is this the “trauma” Solas mentioned?

“What is your last clear memory?” the professor asks again.

“Darkness,” he says. “And voices. Thousands of voices, speaking all the time - and I couldn’t wake up. I don’t know for how long… But they’re quiet now.” _Almost,_ he adds internally.

Solas frowns. “And before that?”

He thinks back to the darkness. It seemed to last forever. It’s not hard to remember the end, but - was there ever a beginning? He tries to reach into the memory, search for it, ignoring the knots of fear that suddenly appear in his throat and stomach - but falls short. It becomes hard to breathe again; the green lights flicker before his open eyes now, as the temperature in the room drops suddenly.

“Mr. Lavellan? - Shadow? - You are shaking. Are you with us? Neilar?”

The professor’s voice is coming from somewhere far away now - a beacon, a hand to reach for and stop drowning. Neilar almost does that, but leaving the gaping hole across his memory be scares him even more than suffocating inside with - so instead he pushes further back, clawing for the beginning he _knows_ has to be there, and eventually the darkness gives in.

He surfaces back into reality to find himself leaning forward in the chair, straining against the metal bands across his limbs, knuckles white against the cold arm rests. Solas is kneeling down next to him, palms resting on his shoulders; relief washes across his previously emotionless face when Neilar meets his gaze, and then his expression solidifies again.

“There is no need to push yourself so much,” he says sternly and stands up. “If you continue as such, there might remain no mind for me to save.”

“I remember a forest,” Neilar whispers.

Vibrant green all over, with colorful flowers the size of a dog scattered around the trees. Birds he’s never seen before, exchanging calls, fluttering from branch to branch, flashes of bright blue and pink and red. Curved tree trunks, easy to climb, easy to disguise yourself in the foliage, but make sure to check for nests first -

And a large, metal door in the middle of it all, carved with inscriptions which meant nothing to him - but, just like the voices’ speech, they make sense to him now.

“Sanctuary,” he repeats after the vision. “Sanctuary.”

The professor’s eyes widen suddenly.

“...Would you… say that again?”

“Sanctuary,” Neilar says, and as he does, realizes it sounds different this time. One word, not two.

_This is - this is not what I said._

A shiver runs down his spine. Slowly, cautiously, he reaches for the right phrase and corrects himself:

“Eth’vhenas.”

“The literal translation,” Solas says quietly, “Would be - a safe home.”

There is a moment of silence, as Neilar’s mind races, chasing beginnings again; how did he know the word? He remembers now standing before that door, feeling the wind, hearing the birds sing; he remembers not understanding a single symbol on the dark surface.

 _I didn’t understand. I didn’t -_ **_how do I know this?_ **

The professor steps closer to him, now looming above the chair and obscuring the light; the bright halo around his head makes his features nearly invisible. There is a moment of silence, and in this moment Neilar feels something dreadful, infinitely worse than crawling through the darkness of his memory. Suddenly, he realizes why the voices stopped; they dared not speak.

Solas speaks; softly, completely different from the tone he has maintained so far.

“Where is the sanctuary, Neilar? Where is the Well of Sorrows?”

“I - I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Please, try to concentrate. This is very important for your healing.”

“I said _I don’t know!_ ”

“Then,” Solas says, “I am sorry.”

A needle sinks into his neck, and Neilar feels a wave of cold spread from the wound as his entire body goes numb. He hears a clicking sound, and his restraints disappear - but, before he can do anything about it, the darkness returns. Fear washes over, expectations of dissonant voices and a language he should not be able to understand - but, to his relief, the darkness overtakes even the sounds this time.

Just for a second, before slipping into unconsciousness, he hears the voices begin to sing.


	13. Speculations

“After Corypheus’ death, we took everything from his lab,” Hawke says. “You guys wanted to find out how he did what he did, right?”

Evelyn nods, frowning.

“As far as I know, the research is still in progress.”

“Well… A few months ago that progress stopped. For all the amazing technology scattered across his various hideouts, Corypheus had no documents, no written research - nothing to suggest how he would ever develop these things. The best we could salvage were early blueprints, and besides that - nothing.”

“...There’s a theory he had a secret database hidden somewhere,” Evelyn says slowly. “Is - is that what you were looking for?”

“There’s no database. They spoke to The Magister, and from all his time working in Dumat Labs, he didn’t remember anything like that. He was just handed schematics supposedly made by Corypheus himself, and ordered to make them into something useful.” She pauses for a moment. “...He was also handed materials, unlike any he’s seen before. Elements that may not even exist on our planet. Red lyrium, though that’s old news at this point.”

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” Will mutters, “But it sounds like good ol’ Cory already had everything prepared. Our time-traveling friend just had to put it together.”

“You’re not wrong,” Hawke says.

Will frowns. “...But why did he need Alexius to build his own designs? He already had the materials and the entire crew of Dumat Labs.”

“Because they weren’t really his designs,” Evelyn says quietly, and, across the table, Hawke nods.

“No surviving worker of Dumat Labs knows where their materials and schematics came from; they weren’t being paid to ponder. It seems like he was the only one who knew the real source.”

Suddenly, Evelyn’s eyes widen. “He stole them. He stole them from - I don’t know who, but… In Viscount, Neilar called Corypheus a thief. If he was being mind controlled - ”

“Then the creators of these designs probably want them back,” Will finishes. “And they’re using him to get it.”

Hawke sighs.

“...This is where it gets weird. Nightingale put together a crew of people who knew Corypheus the best; Varric and I have been fighting him the longest, Neilar and Dorian had a good glance at his plans when The Magister’s machine launched them forward in time. Our third member was… an expert on space-time alteration. Of sorts.”

“Her name?” Evelyn asks.

“The Morrigan.”

There’s a beat of silence, as Evelyn stares at her; Hawke simply shrugs and leans back.

“Fine,” Evelyn says finally. “Don’t tell me. I’ll find out on my own.”

“I’m not lying.”

Will snorts -  and hurriedly catches himself:

“I - sorry, Champion - Rina - Hawke - but… Even I know the Morrigan doesn’t exist.”

“Of course she doesn’t.” Hawke raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, we and our third expert tried to get into _good ol’ Cory’s_ brain, and track down the origin of his so-called inventions. Shadow decided to check a rumored outpost in the Arbor Wilds. This is where he disappeared - in the middle of nowhere.”

“We know that,” Evelyn notes.

“Do you know about Professor Solas too?”

“He disappeared together with Neilar,” Will says. “Not in the Wilds - on the highway. Along with other agents.”

“Solas was a part of our mission,” Hawke explains. “He’s new to the Association; showed on their doorstep right when Corypheus started peppering space-time rifts all over. He insisted this technology was not human. Nobody believed _that_ part, but he did offer some good information; apparently he’s been researching the same subject for the last two years, if theoretically. But now… A hero disappears in the middle of nowhere, returns as a mind-controlled puppet, calls Corypheus a thief.” She shakes her head. “Call me crazy, but maybe this “alien tech” theory has some sense in it. And if it does, then - then we’re in deep.”

Will looks over to Evelyn, but she’s silent, seemingly deep in thought; staring at the table, fingers linked together. After a few seconds, she glances up - surprisingly, at Fenris, who’s been silent through this entire conversation.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“I think Shadow found something he wasn’t supposed to find,” he answers. “But aliens wanting their tecnology back? That doesn’t make any sense - sorry, Hawke. If I wanted to get my things back, and I had the power to just make something disappear - like those agents and Shadow, - I’d just find the Association vault, or lab, that has my technology, and beam it all up. There’s no reason to have a middle man, or go after a single container in Viscount.”

“That’s true,” Hawke admits. “Pretty relieving, to be honest.”

“As common sense tends to be.”

“Bless the Maker for sending such a skeptic my way.”

To Will’s surprise, Fenris chuckles.

“I’m on Fenris’ side of the fence, for now,” Evelyn says. “Dorian thinks somebody in the organization is responsible for their disappearance; I think that’s worth looking into. Any idea who might want Neilar, or Solas, gone?”

“Or playing on their side,” Will adds, in a sudden surge of inspiration. “What if they found the source, but somebody else wants it? So they need Neilar, to tell them the location, and Solas - to make the stuff work. Like The Magister did for Corypheus.”

This is probably the first time he’s seen her genuinely impressed out of costume.

“That… makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“Agreed,” Hawke nods. “Though, I don’t know who may have wanted this; most people I can think of are already dead. However...” She thinks for a moment. “Maybe I have something better.”

“What?” Evelyn leans forward.

“A possible lead. I was going to ask Varric for help - but you’re an even better option,” Hawke says. “There’s someone who might be able to track Shadow down, and he just happens to owe me a favor.”

“...And what’s our part?”

“He needs Neilar’s blood to do it.”

Evelyn nods slowly; if she’s surprised in any way, she doesn’t show it.

“...Alright. Give me four hours and a couple of phone calls; I’ll get some.”

_There must be some in our base’s labs. Shadow consented to experiments, then… Poor guy._

As Seeker explained to him, upon signing a permanent contract with the Association, a hero can allow the organization’s scientific teams to experiment on them, in hopes of learning more about their powers. He, himself, never planned on checking that box; there was nothing unique or weird about his powers. Boosted strength or regeneration would basically make you an overgrown lab rat - but clones… That’s a whole different story. Still, he can’t imagine that’s very pleasant - and stealing a sample of superhuman DNA is definitely a crime. He has no doubt Evelyn can pull it off, though.

“There’s more to this; I’ll need you to meet up with him, too. Again, I was going to do it myself, but - ” Hawke looks back at Fenris. “There’s been a change of plans, and we’re leaving town in the morning. Varric insisted.”

“And I agree with him,” Fenris says. “They sent an agent to interrogate Pavus, and if this agent spots us, we’re lucky if he doesn’t shoot on sight.”

“...What? Why in the _Void?_ ” Will asks, startled.

“We killed his boss,” Hawke says. “And, just so you understand, he _helped_.”

“...Oh. But why - ”

“Where do we meet your contact?” Evelyn asks, interrupting.

“...As far as I know, he usually hangs out in Llomerryn,” Hawke answers.

Evelyn stares at her, confused.

“That’s  - that’s Rivain.”

“Not the _city_ \- it’s a coffee shop. You know that part of the eastern district, with the little shops? Across the market?”

“I do,” Will says.

“It’s there. Just talk to whoever’s behind the counter,” Hawke says. “Tell them that you need a bloodhound.”

 


	14. Bloodhound

Even in the hottest hours of the day, the market is busy; the cacophony of human voices grows louder as they approach, vendors shouting over each other.

“Good thing we’re not heading right in there,” Evelyn mutters. Will turns to find her falling behind and eyeing the crowd ahead, her bag pressed against her stomach almost like a shield.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” She shakes her head briefly and lets the bag fall to her side, though her posture is still tense. “It’s just - I’m out of my element here. I miss Sera,” she sighs quietly.

“Aww,” Will smiles - and earns himself a light smack with the bag.

“Hey!” he raises an arm just in time to defend from the impact. “You’ll break the sample!”

Evelyn grimaces. “I won’t; it’s not in there.”

He can relate to the discomfort; not so long ago, he wouldn’t know either how to behave in this sea of people. His lifestyle didn’t exactly require shopping for groceries on his own, let alone in a market - and on the outside, all this noise and arguing can be pretty intimidating.

The first time he entered the market, it was with Iseran; he always preferred getting his groceries there, rather than in a shop, and one time Will happened to tag along. To be honest, it was pretty scary to watch Iseran make his way across the place; with his thin frame and short height, it seemed to Will the crowd is going to crush him at every second. He rushed after Iseran, anxious, until eventually he noticed people part and give way, seemingly without even thinking about it - as if there was a hidden pattern one had to follow to go through safely. The yelling vendors weren’t as intimidating either, once he watched Iseran speak to each of them cheerfully, asking for their loved one’s health, and their own.

At the end of the day, finding your way around here was not so much about pushing through the crowd or screaming over all the other voices, but being able to handle yourself around people, and that Will could do pretty well.

“Come on,” he says, turning away from the market entrance. “Let’s find that coffee shop.”

Evelyn stays silent as they turn around the corner and begin walking down the street, fiddling with the straps on her bag. At times, Will almost forgets she’s there - and then turns frantically to his side, to make sure he hasn’t lost Evelyn on the way. She’s always there, but she doesn’t even notice him looking.

“Are you okay?” Will asks finally. Evelyn hesitates for a moment, before shaking her head.

“I owe you an apology,” she says. “For the way I acted last night. Storming off, not explaining anything… Then, I let you be attacked, and at Hawke’s place - I dumped all that information on you, and didn’t even care to ask how do you feel about it.” She sighs. “I’m sorry. I got carried away again.”

Will shrugs. “It’s okay. You were distracted; that happens. Actually,” he lets out a laugh, “I think I understand a little more about all this after meeting Hawke.”

“About the Association?”

“About you. You share an agent with the most notorious hero in Thedas; I imagine it’s tough,” he says. “Are you… jealous, at all?”

“What? I  - what - no. No, not at all. It’s just, when I found out she’s been working with him in secret, I… I figured she must have gotten him into trouble again.” Evelyn shakes her head. “Varric… he loves the rebels. People who go against the authority, make their own way. This is why he sticks with Dorian; this is why he’ll do anything for Hawke. He knows he can’t _be_ that person, so he’ll find someone who can and help them. Somebody brilliant, memorable, reckless.”

Her voice falls low.

“I just don’t understand why you have to be stupid in order to be brave. This… is the major point of disagreement between me and Rina, I suppose. She thinks that everything’s fine as long as she gets away with it, even if others will have to pay for her mistakes. Though it’s hypocritical of me to complain,” Evelyn adds with a small, bitter laugh. “If she didn’t mess up in Kirkwall, they wouldn’t have to assign me to Varric to justify keeping him is an agent. I benefitted from that mistake, but still...”

“She’s like your famous, successful cousin,” Will says. ”Who’s always a silent example for you, even if your ideals and lifestyle are completely different from hers.”

“Yes! Exactly! She’s like - ” Evelyn pauses, then looks up at him. “You’re talking about me, aren’t you.”

He laughs. “Tell you what, it’s good to know that successful cousins have their own, even more successful cousins.”

She rolls her eyes. “Go on, be proud of yourself.”

“Thank you!” He performs a small bow. “I will.”

 

Walking along the line of small family shops, it’s not hard to spot the one they need; it has a few tables set outside, some taken by patrons, and a wooden carved sign above the door declares the establishment’s name. A carving above the title depicts a cup with sea waves rising from the inside.

As they get closer, Will picks up the sounds of conversation; some of in in a language he doesn’t recognize.

_Rivaini or Antivan?... Iseran would be so mad._

Iseran has told him over and over again that the two languages aren’t similar at all, and Will _agreed_ , but it doesn’t change the fact he can’t tell them apart to save his life.

“Well,” Evelyn takes a deep breath. “Let’s go meet Rina’s friend.”

The shop’s interior turns out to be rather small. It’s clear people are meant to enjoy their drinks outside here; Will wonders briefly what do they do in winter, then. Still, the lack of space didn’t stop the owners from densely decorating every inch of the walls and even some of the ceiling; it seems like every blank surface in here was covered with tapestries, maps and woven decorations. Somewhere among this must be hidden a few speakers; an unknown musician’s picking at strings hovers through the air.

Behind the counter stands a young man, dark-skinned and dark-haired; they catch him in the middle of rearranging something on the shelves that go all the way up to the top, and it takes him a few moments to notice their arrival. Will notices black eyeliner, and the glimmer of rings on the shopkeeper’s fingers.

When he does turn to them, it’s with a vacant stare of someone who’s been deep in his thoughts up to his moment - and then suspicion bleeds through, locking his expression into a frown.

_Andraste’s light, this guy sure isn’t too happy to see new customers._

“Welcome,” the man says. “How can I help you?”

His voice is somewhat friendlier than his stare, but it doesn’t help matters much.

“We’re not your customers, I’m afraid,” Evelyn says. “We’re looking for a bloodhound.”

Strangely enough, that seems to settle whatever discomfort the shopkeeper had; he nods shortly, and walks out from behind the counter.

“I’ll be back,” he says before turning away and disappearing behind a door Will didn’t even notice up to this moment. They’re left alone in the shop, with the smell of coffee and the music, now joined by a woman’s voice as well.

“I’d love some coffee right now, to be honest,” Evelyn mutters, staring longingly at the neat rows of paper cups stacked on the counter.

Will can relate; whatever sleep they got before heading out again may have prevented them from collapsing, but it certainly didn’t recover all of his energy. Still, he’d rather be out in the field than snoring back at home; he’s committed to this search by now, and with the precious little information they have, there’s no time to waste.

The door opens again a couple of minutes later, and the shopkeeper gestures for them to come in. Behind it is a set of stairs, only wide enough for one person to ascend at the time; the shopkeeper goes first, then Evelyn, and only then Will. For a moment, he fears he might get stuck or fall - this stairway seems to have been built for people half his weight and size, - but then remembers Viscount’s vents and decides it’s hardly worse. At least he’s not dragging a shield on his back this time.

_...Maker, I do hope we don’t have to fight anyone today. I’m done, and everything hurts._

The stairway brings them up into a small room, with wooden floors and doors opening from each wall; an apartment, Will realizes. The owners must be living right above the shop.

One of the doors is open, and behind it is, probably, the owners’ living room; there’s a wide, low table in the middle, with cushions instead of chairs around it. One of the places is taken by someone; the shopkeeper says something to that person and steps aside, sliding past Will and Evelyn back to the stairs.

They exchange looks, and enter the room. As they do, the person inside gets up; from a closer distance, Will sees dark skin and red hair, both strangely desaturated - though it just might be funny lighting. He forgets all about that when the person turns around, revealing pointed ears and milky-white pupil-less eyes.

“So,” the stranger grins, revealing sharp fangs, “You’re Rina’s friends, right?”

“We are,” Evelyn says. “And you’re the bloodhound.”

 _More like a vampire,_ a tiny voice inside Will’s head whispers, and it’s pretty hard to doubt it; their new acquaintance sure looks like one, sharp-toothed with glowing, sunken eyes, and almost uncannily thin, but holding himself in a way which makes Will think he wouldn’t want to pick a fight with this guy.

“Right. Das, if you prefer actual names.”

“I’m Evelyn. This,” she nods in Will's direction, “Is Will. It’s good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you,” he echoes, still not entirely over the vampire question.

“Well, sit down!” Das gestures back to the table, and heads for it first. They follow his lead and sit across, just like at Hawke’s the night before. 

_This is becoming a habit._

“So...” Das squints; up close, Will notices that, even in the light of day, his eyes are glowing. “What’s the TSA want from me, and why are they sending _you_ , and not agents? You’re Lightning, right?” he asks, looking over at Evelyn.

She doesn’t falter, simply nodding. Better than Will himself manages; _a mind-reading vampire,_ the stupid little voice declares.

_Shut up. Shut up! People with more than one power don’t exist. People with more than one power don’t exist!_

“Hawke told you?” Evelyn asks.

“She said you’re from the Association. And _you_ \- you could smell the electricity from a mile away. I’m flattered, though,” Das smiles. “Lightning herself! It’s an honor. Whatever’s your problem, hope I can help it.”

_Well… At least he’s a nice vampire._

Evelyn reaches into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a thin glass vial. It’s barely full, but Will does see some blood at the bottom.

_Shadow blood._

“Our friend is missing,” she says. “Rina said you could find him, with some of his blood. It’s… not really Association business.”

Das reaches for the vial; Evelyn hands it over. He stares at it for a moment, before opening it and smelling the inside. He frowns briefly, then looks up at her.

“He has powers?”

“...Yes. Why, does that matter?” she asks.

“Not for me,” he shrugs. “Just checking that you got the right blood; seems like you did. Gimme a moment.”

With that, in a swift motion he produces a pocket knife; Will fails to register where it came from. The blade slides out, and Das brings it to his palm; after making a cut, he holds it over the vial with Neilar’s blood and lets a few drops fall in. They slide down, seemingly completely black, and then mix with the liquid inside; it begins to sizzle.

Das’ expression is hard to read, but the moment this happens, Will is pretty sure it becomes vacant; he stares past the vial in his hand, motionless, for a second.

Then, his fingers twitch open, and the vial slides out; Will reaches to catch it, but misses by a split second. It shatters across the table, dark liquid smoking and bubbling across shards of glass.

Das curses.

“What’s that?! That’s - _where_ did you get that?”

“It’s blood,” Evelyn says, confused. “Is... something wrong?”

“I don’t know who told you this is your friend’s, but they played a hell of joke on you. Sorry, Lightning.”

“...I don’t understand. I’m - I’m sure that’s his. I can swear on it.”

Das leans forward on the table; shards crack under his sleeves.

“See, when I track blood,” he says, “It leads me to a body. Alive, dead, incinerated, rotten - I’ll find it. This one leads to _nothing_ , and that’s putting it nicely. It’s either you’re wrong, or your friend doesn’t exist.”


	15. Suspect

Even though fevered sleep has been his main pastime over the last day or so, Dorian feels he might as well had not slept at all; his eyelids, heavy and itching from constant rubbing in attempts to sober himself up, refuse to remain open for long, and when he does manage to pry them open, the overwhelming white of his surroundings simply hurts.

Venhedis. They could have at least given him an opportunity to wash up before dragging him in here; he’s not an animal, for Maker’s sake!

 _Focus, Dorian, focus,_ he urges himself. _Rutherford is going to be here any minute; he needs to see a lucid man in front of him, lucid and intelligent._

Leaning on the cold metal table, he buries his face in his palms and takes a deep breath, on the count of three straightening and subjecting himself to the light again. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect; just as he blinks, his sight adjusting, Dorian hears the door finally open.

A man enters the room, his footsteps followed by the rustling of papers in his hands. Not looking up from those for even a second, he makes his way to the chair across and settles down; only then he sets the papers aside and meets Dorian’s eyes.

Agent Rutherford is broad-shouldered and blonde-haired, his features simple but handsomely stern. In earlier years, one could probably call his looks angelic, but they've become worn out by thankless hard work; time and exhaustion took to him like sandpaper to polished glass. Dorian silently notes to himself the redness in the agent’s eyes and his unkempt stubble; this man has been restless for a long time, and that unrest has nothing to do with the current case.

Dorian holds the agent’s gaze, adding a smile; hopefully a dashing one, despite his own miserable state. First impressions are important. What was if - the first three seconds? Five? Doesn’t matter; he’ll play this game as long as he has to.

Rutherford is the first to break eye contact, picking up his papers again.

“Agent Dorian Pavus,” he reads from the page. “Born 9:11 Dragon, Minrathous, Tevinter. Joined the Thedas Superhero Association 9:36 Dragon, eight years ago.” He looks up again. “Is that correct?”

“Undoubtedly so,” Dorian responds.

“Assigned to Neilar Lavellan, also known as Shadow, also known as A Thousand Shadows, at 9:41 Dragon. Known accomplishments: the capture of Gereon Alexius, also known as The Magister, the capture of Samson Raleigh, also known as the False Red Knight. Contributed to the termination of Dumat Labs and its founder known as Corypheus.”

“...And again, all correct.” Dorian leans back in the uncomfortable-on-purpose chair; the top rail immediately digs into his spine.

“Ser Rutherford,” he says, deliberately using the Southern honorific rather than the neutral _agent,_ “I have no doubt that, were you to read every single word in every single one of these documents, you would find only truth; Agent Nightingale always checks her sources. But it’s not truth that you are looking for; it’s a motive. Something that would set me aside; the thing that makes me a traitor. Is it the Tevinter heritage? Is it the scandalous affair? Is it the incredible sense of fashion?”

“The first two are noteworthy suspects, yes,” the agent says dryly.

“Understandable,” Dorian agrees, “Yet, sadly, wrong.”

“That is for me to decide,” Rutherford retorts. There is a moment of silence, broken off only by the rustling of pages in his hands; he doesn’t even look at these documents, Dorian notices, just sorting through them - seemingly with no real purpose. Mindlessly, one could say - except there’s a look of steel in the other agent’s eyes, focused and unforgiving and stark against an otherwise neutral expression.

Then, Rutherford says:

“You have an unusual background, Agent Pavus. Your family is well-known in Tevinter, I take it?”

There are several things Dorian would like to say about that, but - in an amazing exercise of willpower - he holds off for now. Instead, he simply answers:

“You could say so.”

“Halward Pavus and Aquinea Thalrassian,” Rutherford continues, “Also known to the public as the Mind’s Eye and the Enslaver, respectively. Powerful telepaths, vocal advocates for lawful restriction of superpower use - and, at the same time, fierce protesters against the Association.”

Then, after a small pause:

“...It says here that you joined the Association after a conflict with your parents.”

 _You could have backed away,_ Dorian thinks _. But you’re pushing it. Trying to get to me through bringing back memories?_

Fine. He’s been interrogated about his _background_ so many times in training, it barely hurts anymore; he used to storm out of the room in the middle of an interview, sneer and make remarks dripping with venom at the senior agents who, frankly, were just doing their job making sure he’s not a spy. But back then, it burned him on the inside; the wounds were still fresh, and he didn’t know how to cope.

This would have worked on him seven, five years ago - but now? What is this man even thinking? He doesn’t even have the full information, for Maker’s sake; Dorian knows that because, eight years ago, he sat in a very similar room across from Agent Nightingale, and she said some parts of his story will have to remain secret.

He agreed, of course; it was reasonable. But here comes Agent Rutherford, thinking he can manipulate him with this pitiful version of the truth - maybe he should give him the full version of this story, just to see what happens.

“Sight-based powers can be quite the burden,” he says coldly. “Even Tevinter requires such individuals to have protective eyewear on when in public. Do you know how they got married, Mr. Rutherford? My parents?”

The other agent’s brow furrows slightly as his mouth begins forming the first syllable of a “What”; Dorian dismisses it with a wave of his hand:

“Of course you don’t. It’s not in your papers.” Rutherford’s confused expression solidifies into a frown, but he says nothing; maybe he’s waiting for something, or maybe Dorian is talking too fast. He’s been told that he does that.

“...They were so powerful, nobody else could hold their gaze unprotected without getting brainwashed - except for that one other person. They couldn’t stand each other, but they chose convenience over sentiment.” He smiles dryly. “And, of course, there was the chance of producing offspring with similar powers. Maybe even more powerful than both of them - and, of course, with the ability to look them in the eye without fear. As we now know, they got me instead; no special powers to speak of, and that’s what the tests showed as well. I never saw my parent’s eyes; just the blackened lenses of the protective goggles they were obligated to wear in my presence. I applaud that, to be honest; chances are nobody would ever find out if they didn’t, if they bent the rules just a little bit, but as far as I know, my mind has always remained my own.”

Rutherford opens his mouth to speak again; for a moment, Dorian’s uncertain of his intentions and his confidence wavers - but all the other agent says is:

“That’s commendable.”

“Indeed. I got to keep my secrets,” Dorian says. “Well, for a while. Turns out, telepathy isn’t the only way to invade your child’s life; who would have thought?” He pauses. “We had a disagreement. As you’re now well aware, I prefer the company of men. It didn’t sit well with them. I left.”

“For the Association?”

“Not for a while. I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to look for any sensible place to settle in. Luckily, I had an angel; his name was Professor Gereon Alexius. That was before you replaced it with that ridiculous moniker, of course,” he adds, unable to contain the bitterness in those words.

“Corypheus replaced it,” Rutherford replies harshly.

 _But the Association coined the “Magister” nickname,_ Dorian thinks. It’s pointless to argue, he’s tried too many times already; normally that wouldn’t stop him, but now isn’t exactly the best moment to derail the conversation.

“Whatever you like to think,” he says instead. “Whoever he is now, Alexius saved me back then; gave me a job, a place to stay in. I used to be his student, once; now I became his assistant. That... was a good period of time. Maybe it could have stayed that way.”

It’s clear Rutherford isn’t liking this. No wonder; TSA agents don’t generally approve speaking fondly of villains.

“Then, six months later, I got a message. My father. He said he’s thought a lot, that our differences shouldn’t split us apart - there was a lot of profound bullshit like that. And I bought into it,” he says quietly, “Like a moron. He wanted us to meet; I agreed. The house was dark when I came in. He greeted me at the door, and when he closed it behind me, I turned around to see him take his goggles off.”

Until now, the story was all just words - but this scene will never fade into nouns and adjectives like the rest of them; he’ll see it before his eyes every time he thinks of it, every time he tells this story out loud or in thoughts. It will remain scorched into the back of his eyes forever, colors and all.

He remembers the corridor, grey with absence of daylight. The faint click of a light switch flicking on, the room suddenly washed with color.

Halward Pavus had brown eyes, with red sweaty circles around them from constantly wearing the goggles, an ugly contraption that nonetheless protected the world from what he was.

Those eyes looked straight at him, squinting ever so slightly, and a familiar voice, one he used to revere and respect, had ordered him to change and forget.

_The last six months of your life did not happen. Our argument did not happen. You are my son and we love each other. You are a respectable member of Tevinter’s society, who aims one day to find a worthy wife. You have no interest in members of your own sex beyond friendship._

“...This is how we found out that, despite not possessing any superpowers, I was in fact completely immune to mind control.”

Terribly ironic. Had his parents dared to influence him at a younger age, the truth would have been discovered sooner, and his father would have never made that attempt. Who knows, maybe Dorian would still be in Tevinter, working with Alexius - or would the professor still become a supervillain, led astray by Corypheus’ promise to help his son?

“... _He tried to use his powers against you?_ ”

For the first time in this conversation, Agent Rutherford’s facade breaks; Dorian can tell the shock written on his face is genuine.

“But that - ”

“Is absolutely illegal, even in my country,” Dorian agrees. “And it would have destroyed him, had I ever told this story to someone less discreet than Sister Nightingale and yourself.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I did not. Halward Pavus is a hypocrite and a scumbag, but unfortunately - and trust me, I hate to say this, - he’s one of the few people holding Tevinter from descending back into the Dark Ages altogether.” Dorian sighs. “A superhuman celebrity, fighting against superpower abuse, commits the very crime he tried to stop… It wouldn’t destroy just him; the entire movement would crash and burn. Even I am not spiteful enough for such revenge; instead, I ran. Now that I knew my father and the likes of him would use their abilities against me without batting an eye, even Alexius’ house didn’t feel safe. One thing led to another, and I learned of your cause. It was banned in Tevinter, and I would never be able to go back home, or contact anyone there, once I left.” He chuckles joylessly. “It was perfect.”

Dorian leans back in his chair, glancing Rutherford over. He seems fairly invested now; Dorian notes to himself he hasn’t hear the rustling of papers in quite a while. Or was he just so absorbed by the sound of his own voice? That also happens sometimes.

Either way, it feels quite nice to finally be taken seriously, even if it took a quick tour of his tragic backstory.

“Now that I think about it,” he says, “I’m doing my job for the same reason you’re doing _this_ , right here, right now. We were both betrayed by a figure of authority, one we used to trust and respect, but who turned on us the moment we became an inconvenience. We tell ourselves we’re doing this because it’s the right thing, because we want to protect others, to change the world - but in reality, our motivation can be summed up in two words: _never again._ ”

In response, silence - but he sees Rutherford’s nostrils flare, the slight twitch of his expression, the hand reaching for his papers again and drawing back, distressed, not finding any comfort in the touch of them.

“I have nowhere to go, Ser Rutherford,” Dorian continues, pretending he doesn’t notice any of this. “And I don’t mean being locked up here. The Association has been my entire life for eight years now. Everything I have, it gave me, even the man I love.” He looks Rutherford straight in the eye. “I may disagree with some of our methods, and I certainly do have a temper - but now that you’ve heard the full story, agent, tell me: does any of it make me a traitor?”

They stare at each other for a long, long moment - and then, without a word, Rutherford pushes the documents aside. With a heavy sigh, he leans forward on the table, wearily rubbing his eyes; the game is over.

“I don’t like relying on intuition; it has led me astray before,” Rutherford says, looking up at him. “But I believe you, and Maker help me if I’m wrong in that.”

Slowly, Dorian feels a smile spread across his face.

“Marvelous,” he says. “Now, since the suspicion is lifted - “

“Well, we’re going to need more than that to eliminate you as a suspect officially,” Rutherford interrupts. “My trust will get you out of TC, but not off Nightingale’s black list - especially with no other suspects to speak of.”

“...In that case, I have just the man for you, ser Rutherford.”

The other agent’s eyes narrow.

“I’m listening.” 


	16. Prisoner

The voices are gone.

It’s the first thing he realizes upon waking up; there is a faint ringing in his ears still, but deeper under his skin and behind his skull is blissful silence.

Neilar opens his eyes to a field of white - spotless ceiling illuminated by a single lamp.

He’s lying on his back; he feels fabric under his neck. No restraints.

He sits up; vertigo washes over, blurring his vision and bringing a wave of nausea to his stomach. Neilar cringes, raising his hand to his suddenly aching eyes - and freezes as his fingers brush over something cold and unfamiliar, little numb ridges on his forehead.

Slowly, the world settles back into place. He traces the lines cautiously; the skin around them stings like a recent scar. Round, seemingly symmetrical swirls rising between his eyebrows and above each of his eyes.

Neilar has no idea what they are.

He reaches into his memory for an explanation; it doesn’t surprise him at all when he finds empty darkness instead.

He stands up slowly, wary of the dizziness returning - but it seems to have worn off.

The room is fairly small, square and completely featureless; no windows, no furniture besides the bed he woke up on. There is a single door - he tries the handle; locked, - and a passage to another room; a peek inside reveals a tiny bathroom.

He’s meant to stay here for a while, then?... Whoever put him here provided some means of comfort; they care for his wellbeing, though Neilar isn’t sure whether it’s a good or a bad thing in this situation.

“Whoever” is a strong word, though. His memory may be in shambles, but the most recent moment of clarity Neilar remembers quite well.

“Solas,” he mutters to himself.

Solas. Definitely not an Association agent, probably not even a professor; he wants the Well of Sorrows, and for some reason he’s sure Neilar knows where it is, Worst thing is, he could be right.

Creators, it’s _insufferable_ to not know what’s in your own head. Who knows how many days, weeks of memories gone, with Solas greeting him at the end of it - and in the beginning, the vision of a forest, a door, and an inscription he should not be able to read.

Solas said he was under mind control. Whether any of his words were true at all is definitely a good question, but… that would explain a lot.

Is he safe now? Does _anybody_ know where he is? What did he do during this missing time, where has he been? -

 _Stop,_ he orders himself. _Gather yourself. You won’t get any answers by panicking._

Neilar closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He’s done that before. It’s not the first time he wakes up in an unfamiliar place, not the first time he’s been questioned, not the first time he was knocked out. It’s nothing new.

_Ignore Solas, ignore the gaps in your memory, ignore the voices if they return. Work with what you know, and deal with the rest later._

When he opens his eyes, something catches his attention inside the bathroom; a flash of light - a reflection of the lamp outside. A mirror on the wall; he hasn’t noticed it before,

Neilar steps inside, watching his own reflection appear in the frame.

The lines on his face are vibrant blue, glowing ever so faintly and outlined by irritated red skin like a new tattoo. A V-shaped pattern on his forehead, a different, smaller one on his chin - both strangely familiar.

Hypnotized by the sight of his own face, he steps closer to the mirror until he’s inches away from the surface; there’s no mistaking the strange glimmer of the lines from this distance.

_Lyrium._

He exhales quietly; a foggy circle forms on the mirror.

Lyrium. That’s lyrium under his skin.

 _Now_ his spine begins to crawl with fear, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror for long enough to make it stop.

Through all his years in the Association, he’s stayed as far as possible from lyrium-related experiments; Agent Mahariel, his first overseer, advised him to do so when he first joined, and Neilar never had a reason to doubt his words.

For some reason, certain forms of lyrium react to superhumans - or, rather, superhumans react to them. Even standing next to a large lyrium crystal can amplify your powers, consuming lyrium even more so; sometimes, after coming into direct contact with lyrium, even regular humans suddenly obtained super-strength or other strange abilities. Agent Stannard, from Kirkwall, was the most obvious example for that - and for the fact that in either case, everything usually ends with a disaster.

 _Don’t mess with lyrium. It’s great for a while, but then your body and mind are going to fail, and that’ll be the end of you._ Agent Mahariel’s words; he took part in a lyrium experiment himself once, and, as he told Neilar, just barely survived.

And now, that thing is _inside him_ . Why on earth would Solas do this? How does that help anything? Why lyrium, why on his face, _why_ those patterns?

Trying to steady himself, he grabs the edge of the sink - and realizes his hands are shaking.

 _Calm down, calm down, calm down,_ ** _calm down_** **_-_**

“...It’s not going to hurt you.”

A voice behind his back, quiet, but the surprise nearly sends him flying face-first into the mirror; luckily, the sink is still there to stop him. He whips around; for a second it seems like no one is behind him, but then he registers the presence of another person after all - pale and thin, dressed in faded greys, hood pulled over his eyes, the stranger blends almost perfectly into the landscape of an unlit bathroom.

The stranger quickly steps back, arms raised, the sleeves of an oversized hoodie falling almost all the way down to his elbows; he seems almost as startled as Neilar feels.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!... I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Neilar glances him over - harmless, - and only then exhales, slumping against the sink and thanking the Creators he managed to stifle his first twitch of instinct, which was _go for the throat_.

“Who are you?” he asks, hoarse.

Slowly, the stranger lowers his hands, and pushes the hood backwards. Neilar sees a long, thin face, large eyes with dark circles underneath, messy white hair that goes just below the shoulders. He’s young, at least five years younger than Neilar himself.

“...I’m Cole.”

“I’m Neilar. Shadow,” he adds after a moment’s pause. “That’s another name.”

“I know,” Cole says. “I watched him bring you in. You were in pain, but too loud to help; sorry for that, too.”

He’s not sure he understands the second part of that sentence; he latches to the first half instead.

“Watched him bring me in?” he repeats. “Solas? He brought me here?”

Cole shakes his head:

“Fen’Harel. Solas is just the name to let him walk outside.”

 _Dread Wolf._ This is what it means; the same language as the inscription. Had he closed his eyes, Neilar is pretty sure he would be able to picture it written.

“Who’s Fen’Harel?”

Cole lowers his gaze, tucks his hands into his armpits, hunched over, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“He’s old,” he mutters, as though to himself. “Old, but he doesn’t feel like it; the mind is still young and so is the body, it’s the world around him that faded with age. Searching, sorrowful, seeking to make amends for a mistake - for the fall from the sky, the fire that claimed the People’s last hope. He slept for so long, but curiosity made him leave his shelter… And then he found you. He thinks you’ll help, but it hurts so much more when you’re here, a walking reminder of what he’s become.”

Watching Cole sway back and forth, staring into the air absently, Neilar begins to suspect there’s more to his monologue than just words; not with that tone and the kind of details he picks up, extremely specific and abstract at the same time.

“...You’re an empath, aren’t you?”

Cole looks up; he seems confused.

“What’s an empath?”

“Someone who can feel what other people feel,” Neilar explains.

“Oh.” Cole falls silent for a moment. “I suppose I’m that, then.”

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“You hurt. I wanted to help, but couldn’t get through them. They were too loud, longing to be one again - and when Fen’Harel gave them that, they let me through.”

_They… Is he talking about the voices?_

“Yes, I am.”

“How did you - ” Neilar begins, and stops mid-sentence. If Cole can hear the voices, it makes sense for him to listen in on his actual thoughts too. Should he ask him to stop?... Normally, he would, but this time Neilar hesitates; if his mind won’t cooperate with him, maybe Cole can understand more of this mess.

So, instead, he says:

“How about we step out of here and talk?”

Exiting the bathroom, he turns around just in time to see Cole step into the light - and his figure suddenly become much fainter, the outline of the room behind him barely shining through his form. Translucent, like a ghost.

Neilar realizes he’s staring, and quickly shakes it off; some superhumans would find that upsetting, and he wants to remain on good terms with Cole.

“I’m not that,” Cole says before he can even begin to articulate an apology.

“...Not what?”

“Superhuman.”


	17. Downtime(April Fools)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a joke chapter and not technically part of the story, but I'll leave it here for history's sake. Also, almost all the chapter predictions in it are terribly off, since, as usual, this fic laughs in the face of my attempts to guess how many chapters this or another thing will take. x)  
> Plot will resume as usual from chapter 18 and on :')

“So… Do you think he’s?...”

“No.”

Evelyn’s answer is short and resolute; it’s clear she’s thought about this and came to a conclusion long before their visit to _Llomerryn_ , and she’s not about to change her opinion now.

“Huh.” Will traces the lid of his paper cup full of precious - and free! - coffee absentmindedly. He’s not really sure what else to say; part of him is still processing the fact Shadow’s neither dead or alive, and their investigation came to a halt again. Also, even with the coffee, he’s still so damn _tired_. It feels like it should be easy to link facts together and turn them into solid ideas, but right now he just feels like a toddler trying to jam a plastic cube into a round hole. “What… do you think happened to him, then?”

“I don’t know, but he’s not dead - and, honestly, that’s all that matters to me at the moment.”

They sit in silence for a while. Then, Will asks:

“...Are you sure you got the right blood?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“It’s…” he fishes for the right words, finds none and concludes awkwardly: “...Really weird, then.”

“Will...” Evelyn puts a hand on his shoulder; he glances at her. She seems oddly concerned.

“I think,” she begins, but her voice trails off mid-sentence. There’s a long, awkward pause.

Evelyn frowns.

“I _think_ \- ” she repeats, “I think… Argh, damn it.” She takes her hand off Will’s shoulder, shakes her head in frustration. “What was it?”

Will looks down at the script in his hand.

“I think you should sleep,” he says.

“I’m not sleepy, it’s just a little blackout!”

“No - that’s your next line.”

“...Oh.”

They exchange glances.

“A break?” Will offers.

“You don’t want to rehearse that one more time?” Evelyn asks, unsure. “We’re filming this scene next.”

“We can rehearse after we take a break, and,” he holds up the empty paper cup, “After we go get some actual coffee.”

“...Okay, I’m sold.” Evelyn stands up, quickly brushes over her clothes, fixes her hair - and only then takes the script back from Will’s outstretched hand, tucking the papers under her arm.

 

They end up making their way to the break room not with two, but six coffee cups; as soon as Evelyn texted the group chat saying they’re heading out, it was instantly flooded with requests to bring the others coffee as well.

While walking, she takes the lid off one of the cups in her tray, smells it, scrunches her nose and fixes the lid back on.

“...Dear Maker, Sera. We need to have a talk about healthy sugar consumption.”

“Says you,” Will mutters. “I tried yours once - it tasted like something that can actually kill you.”

“It’s not _as_ bad! And besides, I need the energy… Wait, you _drank my coffee_?”

“Ew, no! I just ordered the same thing.”

“...Oh. Well, that just sounds like a you problem.”

There’s a sound of conversation coming from the break room; it sounds quite ful, something that doesn’t happen often. Evelyn pushes the door open, making sure to get a better hold of her tray beforehand - and masterfully manages to keep her balance and the drinks when a delighted squeal sounds from within the room and Sera crashes into her, immediately pulling Evelyn into a hug.

“I - hi there,” Evelyn laughs, patting her on the back with her free hand. “Glad to see you too - Sera! - these are still hot, _please._ ”

“You’ve been gone for like a million years!” Sera protests.

“Half a day.”

“Well! That’s what I said!”

Will peeks over the girls’ heads into the room; three more people inside, and Iseran isn’t one of them. He sighs quietly.

Meanwhile, Sera pulls Evelyn inside, allowing him to finally step through as well.

“It’s a crowd in here,” Will notes, looking around. “What happened?”

“They’re shooting 19 right now; it’s mostly guests,” Neilar says from his place, sitting on the back of a couch otherwise solely occupied by Dorian. He gives a little grateful nod to Will, accepting his coffee; Dorian mutters a “thank you” and puts the cup onto the nearby table.

Will raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“If I will see Cullen, or the TC room set, just _one more time_ , I will go on a murder spree.”

“They keep asking for new takes,” Neilar explains, leaning over. He glances down an Dorian: “...Are you done with it now?”

“No,” Dorian sighs. “I am in agony.”

“Well… At least you don’t have to wear itchy makeup,” Neilar says, poking at the neon blue vallaslin lines on his own face. “These are awful. What’s the point of covering up my _actual_ vallaslin just to draw a new one?”

“Aesthetic,” Evelyn calls from the other side of the room.

“Yeah? I think the director just likes making me suffer.” Neilar takes a sip of his coffee and cringes. “Ow! - that’s _boiling_.”

“That’s your thing, though,” Dorian notes philosophically. “You are the suffering… the damsel in distress. The sad, charismatic character we all need to save.”

“Oh, and let me guess - you’re the brave knight rushing to the rescue,” Neilar says sarcastically.

“Honestly, I’m beginning to think I’m just another damsel in a slightly different tower; that’s why we can never bloody meet.”

A snort sounds from the other couch:

“Can you get any _more_ bitter, Dorian?”

“As if you’re one to speak, Das,” he replies, irritated. “Dare I say, you have it the easiest; you’re just the - ”

“ _Spoilers!_ ” Evelyn interrupts frantically, whipping away from her ongoing conversation. “Dorian, for Maker’s sake!”

“Right, right,” he grumbles. “I just won’t speak at all, then.”

“Anyway - ” Evelyn continues as if nothing happened, “Did you guys see who they brought in for 19? And for 21?”

“Ooooh,” Sera giggles. “19’s _good_.”

Neiar frowns. “...I might be missing something, but… 19 isn’t all that exciting?”

“Who cares about the plot! It’s got cool people in it!”

“You’re not excited about the celebrities for 25?” Evelyn asks, surprised.

“Ehh,” Sera shrugs. “Kind of? One of ‘em’s cute, but - like - _scary_. And the guys from 19 are cool.” Her face lights up. “They’re probably finishing filming soon! Hey - hey - wanna go say hi? We can hang out!... Ohh, wait, which one of you still doesn’t know who I’m talking about?”

After a small pause, Will, Neilar and Dorian raise their hands.

“By the way,” Will says, “Has anybody seen Iseran today?”

“Nope,” Sera replies.

“I don’t think he’s in another scene for a while,” Evelyn adds. “Maybe call him?”

“...Yeah, I think I’ll do that. You guys go say hello to the mystery guests for me.”

“Oh, I think we have a couple of minutes,” Evelyn says. “We’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll - do that, then.” He gives the room one final look-over before turning away and going out into the corridor. Behind his back, Sera calls:

“You got five minutes!”

“Don’t listen to her!” Evelyn calls out almost immediately after. “You have maybe ten!” 


	18. Honesty

“So… Do you think he’s?...”

“No.”

Evelyn’s answer is short and resolute; it’s clear she’s thought about this and came to a conclusion long before their visit to _Llomerryn_ , and she’s not about to change her opinion now.

“Huh.” Will traces the lid of his paper cup full of precious - and free! - coffee absentmindedly. He’s not really sure what else to say; part of him is still processing the fact Shadow’s neither dead or alive, and their investigation came to a halt again. Also, even with the coffee, he’s still so damn _tired_. It feels like it should be easy to link facts together and turn them into solid ideas, but right now he just feels like a toddler trying to jam a plastic cube into a round hole. “What… do you think happened to him, then?”

“I don’t know, but he’s not dead - and, honestly, that’s all that matters to me at the moment.”

They sit in silence for a while. Then, Will asks:

“...Are you sure you got the right blood?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Huh.”

“Will...” Evelyn puts a hand on his shoulder; he glances at her. She seems oddly concerned. “I think you should sleep,” she says.

“I think I should sleep too, but...” he yawns. “We have an… investigation. Very important. Sleep later.”

“We just lost our lead; I think you can sleep later _now._ It’s not like anything interesting is going to happen anytime soon,” Evelyn sighs.

“You know, this is kind of nice,” Will mutters.

“Huh?”

He gestures vaguely around him:

“Just… sittin’ on the sidewalk. Having coffee.”

“Talking about our missing friend,” she adds with a tone of sarcasm. “...Well, _my_ friend. You don’t really know him that well, do you?”

“...Yeah.” Will yawns again. “I just… haven’t done that in a while. That’s all. Just talk to someone - well - ‘cept for Iseran. He’s my boyfriend. I tell him everything.”

He turns back to Evelyn just in time to notice her hide a smile.

“I told you about him,” he says. “I think.”

“No, you didn’t,” she says, “But that’s nice. It’s nice that you have him.”

Will grins:

“Yeah.”

“...Don’t tell him about our case, though.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “Haven’t seen him since we found all the stuff, anyway, so… not like I could. But I would if you didn’t tell me not to. Because I tell him _everything_.”

“Yeah,” Evelyn says, “I got that from the first time.”

“Ooh, Maker.” Will rubs his face. “I do need to sleep... I’m getting loopy.”

“Yes, you are.” She glances at his coffee. “Maybe don’t finish that, then - ”

He downs the rest of the cup. Evelyn sighs quietly, shaking her head:

“You know, it’s a really good thing you didn’t drive us here.”

The road back home is weirdly longer than he remembers. Before, curiosity and adrenaline propelled him forward, ignoring exhaustion - but now, even though his heart is drumming in his chest, Will feels so much slower.

_What time even is it right now?_

Thoughts roll around in his head like cotton balls or empty paper cups, light and mildly annoying. Evelyn, on the other hand, seems fine - not as energetic as before, but still holding it together way better than him.

 _You’re so nice,_ another cotton-ball thought floats by as they walk. _I hated you, but you’re nice and you just want to help your friend -_

Evelyn lets out a small laugh.

“...Thanks, Will.”

“Huh? Did I...“ _Shit!_ “...Did I just say that out loud?”

“Yup.”

“...Sorry?”

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “It was kind of adorable. You know,” Evelyn adds after a small pause, “You were right; this _is_ nice. Just… hanging out.”

Again, silence falls - and then, surprising even himself, Will mutters:

“I - um - I don’t have any friends.”

He sees a slight frown come across Evelyn’s face; she’s clearly about to say something, but before she does, he adds hurriedly:

“...I’m not saying this in self-pity or anything, just - oh Maker, this is awkward.”

 _But it’s also true,_ a little voice in his head whispers. He shakes his head furiously, trying to drown it out and get his thoughts to align even just a little bit.

“Guess what I’m trying to say,” he continues, powering through both embarrassment and fatigue, “Is that, compared to you, I’m… like… extremely uncool. You have all these friends and connections, and - and people make posters of you - and you’re a real hero. Even out of costume and - I hope - I hope I can be like that too someday. And I wanted to thank you for... trusting me with this investigation and your identity, that’s all.”

Sweet Maker, he’s a rambling mess. Maybe that’s good - his pride wouldn’t let him say any of this out loud in a slightly more lucid state, - but is he going to regret this later? Will has a feeling he just might.

“Will,” Evelyn says quietly, “I… Thank you, but - maybe I’m not the right person to look up to. Honestly, I would much rather be your first friend in the Association than a role model.”

He glances back at her; suddenly, her expression is dead serious. It’s - it’s kind of scary.

_Did I say something wrong? Bet I did. Damn it._

“I’m… sorry?” he tries, panicking just a little bit. “I, uh, didn’t mean to… do whatever I just did?”

“No, you did nothing wrong," she says hurriedly, and adds, in a lower voice, "Just - I feel like you have a misconception here, about me.”

“...What?”

There’s a moment of hesitation as she wraps her arms around herself just like in the market before, staring down at the pavement as they walk. It’s clear she’s struggling, but Will doesn’t dare to intervene; a few seconds pass before Evelyn speaks again.

“You give me way too much credit,” she says. “Me, Lightning - both of us. Will, I... I didn’t even join the Association by choice.”

Her last words are barely audible, whispered to the bricks under her feet rather than to him. It takes him a moment to understand what’s even _wrong_ with that statement - and just when he’s done, Evelyn breaks the silence again:

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad things turned out the way they did, but - it wasn’t my idea. You, on the other hand, knocked on the Association’s door and _asked_ to be Shining Shield.” She shakes her head. “You have a poster of Lightning in your room, when you are more of a hero than I ever was."

Will blinks. He has no idea what to say to this; he never thought about how Lightning ended up in the Association - most heroes don't do around sharing their stories like that anyway, - but he certainly didn't expect this to be the answer.

And...

"...How _do_ you even join the TSA against your own will?"

"Not _against my will_ , it's just - " Evelyn lets out a frustrated sigh, "It's not as simple as that. Will... Do you remember that story I wouldn't tell you? About how I ran away?"

He nods. "'Course I do."

"Well, I didn't run away," she says, and, suddenly, asks:

"...You know how my suit works, right?"

Will nods again, confused.

"You told me - well, when I was Shining Shield," he says. "It holds your energy back."

"It keeps me _together_ ," Evelyn corrects him; he catches a hint of bitterness in her voice. "Without it and the restrictor, the name Lightning becomes a little too literal. If I took them off, I'd disappear, turn into pure energy. From what I've been told, it does look a lot like ball lightning, actually."

As she continues speaking, thoughts turn over in his head, less and less heavy by the minute - and just as the suspicion begins to creep in, Evelyn's voice sounds again, confirming it.

"That's what really happened those ten years ago. My powers manifested, and, without safety measures to hold me down, I disappeared."

She continues with the same breath, before he has time to process or to reply, as though she's afraid to stop:

"I didn't spend that year hitchhiking; I spent it flying through powerlines, barely conscious, terrified. I did make it to the Hanged Man, though, that is true," she adds. "That's where I got stuck. Apparently, me thrashing around in their faulty wiring registered on the Association's radars as an anomaly, and... they sent a team. They brought some device that picked up my voice." She takes a deep breath. "...They got me out of the wiring. Put me in some sort of container and hauled me over to the Wycome base. There, the researchers figured out a way to bring my body back. I got sent back home, with instructions to tell my parents nothing. We made up a story, and," Evelyn chuckles briefly, "An Association lady was posing as my therapist for some time. She'd take me to training during our sessions. By the time I hit eighteen, it was part of my life, and I _owed_ that life to them, so... signing that contract was more of a formality, really." 

She looks up at him, and belatedly Will realizes Evelyn's been avoiding his eyes the entire time she was speaking. He also realizes her voice trembled ever so slightly on these last few words, and that her fingers are clawing at her bag's straps nervously.

It's the most distressed he's even seen her, and, as her story sinks in, Will is pretty sure he feels his heart break a little.

"You spent an entire year on your own?" he whispers, horrified. "Evelyn, that's... I had no idea."

"Well - eight months," Evelyn says. "Then four more in the lab; I wasn't on my own there. There were the researchers - and another kid with superpowers." A small smile comes across her face. "A boy who could create copies of himself; they would appear randomly around him, and scare him half to death. Neil had to wear a restrictor anytime he wasn't training, back then. There wasn't much to do around, so he'd come to the place where I was contained, talk to me through the glass... I couldn't always reply, but - it took my mind off things. I was happy to learn we both made it out in the end."

Will stops walking. As Evelyn halts her steps too, shooting him a confused look, he leans down and pulls her into a hug, feeling the familiar static electricity shoot through his arms.

"...Wha - ow! Oh - oh, okay," he hears her voice somewhere against his shoulder, followed by an awkward laugh, "We're - we're doing _this_ now, I guess."

She pats him on the back lightly; as Will pulls away, he discovers his vision blurred a little bit, and does his best to wipe the tears before Evelyn noticed. Maker, it's - it's the sleep deprivation getting to him, probably.

"You're the bravest hero I've ever met," he tells her. "That's it. That's - that's all that matters."

He wishes he could find some better words, but he has a feeling that Evelyn understands; she looks at him strange for a moment, but then she nods and says:

"Thanks, Will. Really."

"Also, I'm sorry," he adds, still.

"Don't. Just like you said earlier - I'm not telling you this in self-pity; that story has a happy ending, after all. Just - I want you to know that Lightning is the product of coincidence and the help of many, many people." Evelyn smiles slightly. "And so is Evelyn, in a way."

 She starts walking again, and, instinctually, Will follows - even though the gears are still grinding inside his head, refusing to let the conversation rest.

Just as they turn the corner, he blurts out:

"I was in a car crash, by the way."

Evelyn's brow furrows for a moment - and then she nods:

"Oh - I remember. About a year ago, right?..." That's when her eyes widen as the realization hits. "...And you joined the Association right after," she finishes.

"That's right, I did," he says. "The thing is, we, uh - we were all drunk that night. Me included. And we thought it'd be a great idea to race our cars down an empty highway. Obviously didn't go well."

"I heard that part," Evelyn says slowly. "Two of you crashed into each other."

Will sighs. "Andraste, my parents really spilled all the details, didn't they?" 

"They must have. Mom's a good listener."

"Sounds like it," he mutters, but shakes off the spite as he remembers that's not the point of his story. "...And they probably also mentioned one of those people was me, then."

Evelyn nods.

"And that you were exceptionally lucky, not a scratch."

"Oh, _that_ part's wrong; I got messed up. But then... I heard the other guy yell that his car caught fire and that he can't get out and - this panic washed over. Somehow, I got out of my car, got to the other guy, and... I don't remember, but - I think - I tore his car apart to get him out. Later, in the hospital, they said I was fine, and I thought that was weird because I could _swear_ I heard some bones crunch, but, what do you know!" Will laughs nervously. "...Took me a couple days to realize that strength wasn't normal. Once I did, though - " he shrugs, "Went straight to the TSA. I figured they'd know what I'm supposed to do in this situation."

"...And they offered you a shield and a uniform," Evelyn guesses.

"I mean, first they offered a civilian protection program," Will grins, "But the other option sounded more interesting."

"You seem happy with that choice," she says.

"I am. So many good things happened to me because of this one car crash. Well - " he scratches the back of his head, "None of those other guys ever talked to me again and that's why I have no friends now, but, looking back, they were all kind of jerks anyway."

Evelyn smiles.

"Well," she says, "Would you have Lightning as your friend? I bet none of them could even dream of that."

 ****"That's right," Will laughs. "But, you know," he adds, "I think I'd rather have Evelyn Trevelyan."


	19. Loose ends

“Before you say anything,” Dagna calls out as soon as he sets foot within the laboratory, “It’s too early for any results. We’ll be compiling those scans for another four hours, at least - and what we’re getting so far is _weird._ ”

She tries to make it sound like a complaint, but anyone can see she’s excited. Varric smiles to himself; at least someone’s enjoying themselves among all this mess.

“Thanks for the update,” he says. “I’m not here for the scans, though.”

He makes his way between tables mounted with all counts of equipment and to Adaar’s desk; the technician glances away from his monitor just for a moment to greet him with a nod, and immediately goes back to inspecting whatever’s on screen. Varric glances at the image; a three-dimensional model of the device found in Viscount, rotating and constantly updated with new tags and details.

“How’s it going, Tinker?”

“Like Dagna said. We have a pretty good idea of its structure, but figuring out what it _does_ will take time.”

“...Huh. But we have some parts identified, right? You said we could track the power cell’s manufacturer.”

“Yes, but I’ll be very surprised if they were even aware that they sold it to Dumat Labs.”

With a sigh, Adaar leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes; he’s been up all night, much like Varric.

“...What really interests me is the parts we _don’t_ know. I don’t think the power cell, or the screws, or those parts of the casing were supposed to be there; the materials are too different. Someone must have messed with the original structure, maybe tried to fix or improve it, which makes identifying the original purpose all the more - “ he stops mid-sentence; for a moment, there’s silence, and then he looks back at Varric.

“...Why are you here?” Adaar asks.

Instead of an answer, Varric pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and places it on top of his keyboard.

“Finally got my hands on that research approval for you,” he says. “Just like we agreed; all it needs is your signature.”

Slowly, Adaar takes the paper. He unfolds it, stares at it for a moment. His expression is hard to read - it always is, - but Varric’s known him long enough to see he’s conflicted.

“...Something’s wrong?”

Adaar shakes his head, then folds the paper and hands it back to Varric. Now it’s his turn to stare at the document, confused as all hell:

“What - why?”

“He didn’t take the route,” Adaar says. “The agreement was to break him out; I’m not taking payment for something I didn’t do.”

“Well, it’s not your fault,” Varric protests. “You still hacked into the security system. You took the risk, Aqun; that deserves _something_.”

“Just a friendly reminder,” Dagna calls to them from her side of the room, “That I’m not hearing any of this! _La, la, la, la, la._ ”

“We’ll consider this one on the house,” Adaar tells him. “Keep the paper. I’ll get that permission through honest means, eventually.”

There is a long pause.

“Fine,” Varric says finally, taking the paper and tucking it back into his jacket. “But I’m going to _keep_ it, Tinker - and if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.” He sighs. “...What _is_ it with all of you? Since when the entire Association have become honest people?”

Adaar shrugs and goes back to his computer.

As Varric navigates his way back to the exit, a “Psst” sounds from the side as Dagna beckons him closer.

“Don’t be mad at him,” she says quietly when he approaches.

Varric glances back at Adaar, hunched over the monitor.

“I’m not, Chatters. It’s fine.”

“It’s just, you know, we’re all on high alert right now with all that’s happening. I’m not saying it’s Kirkwall all over again, but things _are_ kind of a mess - and he doesn’t want that to backfire at you, I suppose. I get it; I wouldn’t either.”

...So that’s what it’s all about? Keeping _him_ safe?

“Maker’s breath,” Varric mutters and shakes his head. “I’ll go tell him - ”

“No,” Dagna says. “Don’t. Keep the thing; you’ll talk about it later, alright?”

“...Alright.”

She pats him on the shoulder:

“Good. Now, I might have something here to cheer you up, just wait a moment.”

She types something on a nearby keyboard, and the surface of her surprisingly - at first - clean desk lights up, projecting a hologram into the air; a more refined version of what he saw on Adaar’s monitor, minus the tags with information.

“The structural scan is the cleanest one we did before they took it away,” she says. “I’ve stared at it for three hours this morning, but maybe you’ll have some fresh insight.”

She hands him a glove with sensors on the fingertips and puts another on herself; these operate the hologram.

“See,” she says, tapping on a segment of the device, and the hologram begins to unfold, “I think that part should open somehow. If we’re right, it forms a sort of a ring, and the energy’s supposed to circulate through it. Now, if we knew what was _inside_ the ring, we would’ve cracked this long ago, but the materials - Varric?...”

He freezes in the middle of putting his glove on, staring at the device in its new form. A familiar form.

“Varric, you alright?”

“...Huh? I - yeah,” he mutters and pulls the glove off. “I… Sorry, Chatters. I’d love to help, but - I just remembered - I need to make some phone calls, I mean, a report. Urgent matters.”

“...Alright,” she says. Varric doesn’t need to look at her to see the small knot between her eyebrows, that I _-know-something’s-going-on-but-you-won’t-tell-me_ expression.

“Sorry,” he repeats, handing the glove back to her, and then storms out of the lab.

He does have a few phone calls to make.

 


	20. Breakout

“...I’m not human,” Cole says. “I… don’t think so, at least. Humans have a start and finish, memory, movement, and I’ve always just been me. Just what I have to be to help. And humans aren’t allowed here, anyway.”

Neilar doesn't like the sound of that.

"Humans?" he repeats slowly. "Then... Who's allowed?"

"People like you," Cole says simply. "People like him. The People."

He frowns. “...The People? Superhumans?”

“Some think all of you are, some see only select few - but in the end, it’s always the gates that decide.”

“Okay...” Neilar takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

_We’ll file it under “deal with this later”, along with the question of what you really are and the lyrium under my skin._

“You want to leave,” Cole says. “I’ll help.”

_Wait - what?_

“...Really?”

Cole nods.

“Fen’Harel isn’t going to be happy,” Neilar says. 

“I think he is. He doesn’t want to keep you here, but he keeps telling himself that he has to.”

He glances Cole over. Part of him is doubtful - his new friend looks to be anything but a fighter, and his motives aren't exactly clear either, - but... he's not exactly in a position to turn any sort of help down.

“...Alright. How will you get me out?”

Instead of answering, Cole walks forward, not stopping even when it seems like he’s about to hit the opposite wall - and simply passes right through it.

Neilar isn’t sure why this even surprised him. For all of Cole’s ghostly qualities, it only makes sense for him to be walking through walls - and he had to get into this room _somehow_.

There is a clicking noise, and the door that was locked before swings open; on the other side of it stands Cole, waving at him.

He finds himself smiling. That’s a good ally to have - even though he’s still not sure _why_ Cole is doing all this, or where he came from.

“You’re happier now,” Cole states, matter-of-fact.

“You have no idea,” Neilar assures him.

Cole smiles shyly. “I do. I can feel it.”

_Oh - right._

“Point taken,” he says. "Just... thank you."

"I'm glad I'm helping," Cole answers.

The corridor outside is dark; as Neilar carefully closes the door behind him, the euphoria caused by this unexpected rescue quickly begins to dissipate. His body remembers he’s still in danger even though his mind forgot for a moment; he tenses up, glancing around, listening into the darkness. His shadows might not be with him at the moment, but years of training made him more than that; he still can see in dim light just as well as in daylight, hear the faintest noises - and defend himself if need be. Something tells them there will, indeed, be a need.

“Cole,” he asks quietly, “Do you know anything about the defenses around here? Cameras, guards - ”

“No guards,” Cole replies immediately, quiet also. “No one at all, except for Fen’Harel and then me - but I’m not sure if he knows I’m here, anyway.”

“...He’s all alone here?”

“Yes. For many, many years. But he’s not here right now; he went through the gate.”

Here it is again. _The gate._ What does that even mean? That’s good news, though; this means they’re completely alone. Worst case scenario, there’s some sort of automated security system - but machines won’t react as efficiently as people.

“Anything else you can tell me before we go?” he asks Cole. In the dark, Cole’s figure is almost indiscernible, but also weirdly solid - though Neilar suspects that if he were to reach a hand out, it would still go right through.

“I know the way outside,” Cole says. “Just follow me.”

Neilar nods shortly. “I’ll be right behind.”

 

Cole said the place is empty, and Neilar has no reason to doubt him - but it’s so odd to walk the dark hallways, narrow but tall, with clean metallic-feeling walls that make almost no sound when he knocks against them without hiding and listening and tensing up at every noise like he’s used to. Cole announces when they approach cameras and locks because Neilar asks him to - but with a friendly ghost at his side, it’s painfully easy to slip past those defenses.

Solas - Fen’Harel - must really not know Cole is around. This place, this base is not reinforced against someone with someone like him as an ally. It makes perfect sense, but the voice in the back of Neilar’s head keeps whispering, _too simple, too simple, too simple,_ and soon his thoughts begin to echo with whispers in the unfamiliar language again. He can’t tell whether the voices are truly back or this is just a memory brought up by his unease.

Despite Cole’s words, he keeps looking behind his shoulder, and his heart keeps jumping whenever the shadows in a corner seem too much like a figure. Stupid, but he just can’t stop.

He notes the turns as they walk, compiling a map of the corridors in his head. It helps to push the voices, or the memory of them, further back - and it will be useful if for some reason he has to take this route again, alone.

Then, they step into a lighter, longer hallway, and Neilar squints at the brighter interior. Cole halts for a moment, looking around; then, he nods to himself and picks up the pace again. Neilar follows, no questions asked.

Somehow, it’s even more unsettling than the darkness; he feels exposed, and he feels watched. He trusts his guide, though, and that is the most important thing.

No matter how hard he tries to listen, all he hears outside of his own head is silence, further confirmation that they are alone in here.

“Neilar,” Cole says suddenly.

“...What?”

“There’s something I don’t understand. Why does he hurt?”

“Who?”

“I… I don’t know.” There is a hint of frustration in Cole’s voice as he says that. “...But I keep hearing him from you. I...” Cole exhales quietly, goes silent for a moment - and then speaks in the same absent voice Neilar heard before. “Cold, cruel, red in the darkness. Fake future, and he’s the only thing familiar; I can’t lose him. His lips taste of blood, eyes wide but he didn’t pull back. _For luck._ ”

“Dorian,” Neilar hears himself whisper before the meaning of Cole’s speech even fully settles in his mind. His own voice sounds alien saying it. How long has it been since he last said his name out loud?

“It was the first serious mission together,” he says. “The first one, and he had to go into the field with me because he knew the Magister. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and he was a new agent, and…”

 _And I loved him already,_ he finishes the unspoken phrase in his head.

It was impossible not to, not with that spark in his eyes and the smile of a man who’s so used to the odds conspiring against him, he can hardly imagine living in different circumstances. Dorian was a replacement, and he was Tevinter, and he was clearly steeling himself to face mistrust - but just a few hours with him were enough for Neilar to understand he’d trust that new agent with his life.

He could never put his finger on the exact moment that admiration took on a different tone; it just happened, shifting seamlessly from relief that Agent Mahariel had a decent successor to awe at everything Dorian has had to face, to finding himself lost momentarily in the sound of his voice and the smallest of gestures, smiling back a little too eagerly, answering his questions a little too quickly.

Still, he hasn’t dared to say anything, even though at times it seemed as if Dorian was starting to pick up on those things. A hero falling for his agent is never good; it’s not uncommon to date a fellow hero, one of the few people who can understand you - but an agent’s judgement needs to be clear and unbiased, and a relationship with their hero charge is guaranteed to ruin that. As far as Neilar knew, most agents didn’t have families at all.

So he stayed silent - up until they were dragged into a different timeline, and Dorian was right there with him in the heart of danger, and the fear of losing him forever outweighed reason.

“...And I caved.”

“But he understood,” Cole says, confused. “He was happy - you were happy. Why does he hurt?”

“Because we shouldn’t be doing this,” Neilar says. “I didn’t care. He said he didn’t care too, but - the stakes are higher for him. If this relationship gets him fired, he has nowhere to go - so I suggested we confess, stop keeping it a secret. Like an idiot. We argued, and I left for the Wilds the next day.” He shakes his head. “The next thing I know, I was here.”

“He’s not angry,” Cole tells him.

“I sure hope so,” he mutters. “But not even a mind-reader like you would know for sure, Cole.”

“I do. Pacing around the room, counting the seconds; feeling him over my shoulder, in the back of my mind, in my sleep, anywhere but here, anywhere but with me. Come back. Come back. Come back.”

Neilar stops.

“Cole - was it…”

“You hurt,” Cole says, “And his hurt touches yours. He’s not angry, just scared.”

“These were… his thoughts?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Maybe they’re thoughts, but I can’t say if he’s thinking them; I just hear what hurts.”

_Over my shoulder, in the back of my mind, in my sleep._

_Come back -_

“Scared,” he repeats flatly.

“...Yes.”

Another voice resurfaces: _your agent has been most understanding._

Creators - he doesn’t _know_ . This shouldn’t surprise him, not after Solas’ Association legend turned out to be fake - but for some reason it didn’t occur to him until not. He’s here, taking his damn time to interrogate Cole and poke at his lyrium tattoos and talk about his feelings, while - while Dorian’s _out there_ , and as far as he knows, Neilar’s been missing for who knows how long.

“He doesn’t know,” he repeats, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “He doesn’t know , Cole - and he’s _scared!_ ”

“Yes?...”

“I’m going to _end_ Solas,” he says. “Solas, Fen’Harel - all of them.”

“...Didn’t you want to leave?”

“Yes, first we leave. Then I make him regret his life choices.”

“But why?”

He glances at Cole; at this point, Neilar’s seen him nervous, strangely calm and even happy, but right now, for the first time since they met, he seems highly uncomfortable.

“You don’t want him hurt,” he says, stating rather than guessing. Cole nods.

“Why?”

“I’ve heard him hurting. Sharp and loud, just like you; he doesn’t need any more. It’s hard as it is.”

“For you?”

“For him,” Cole says; it’s the first time Neilar has heard his voice even come close to sounding harsh. That kind of determination gives him a pause, if just for a second.

“I don’t understand, Cole,” he says then. “You said he doesn’t even know you’re here. You’re foiling his plans right as we speak. Why would you care?”

“...Because I hear him.”

He stares at Cole for a long moment, then sighs and shakes his head. It’s just another thing he probably won’t understand - and there are more important things than getting revenge right now. It’s not worth losing time, and it’s not worth losing Cole’s support.

“Fine,” Neilar says. “But if he comes after me, or the people I care about, I’ll do what I have to.”

“You won’t have to do anything if I get you out,” Cole replies firmly. Neilar isn’t so sure, but he is not about to waste any more time arguing; instead, he just nods, and Cole seems relieved by his response.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Neilar follows.

 


	21. Memory

A strange weeling washes over him as the wide door slides open silently, activated by a code Cole typed into a panel right by it.

“Is it just me, or we’ve been here already?” Neilar murmurs, glancing at his guide.

Cole shakes his head.

“We haven’t.”

“Weird. I could swear we’ve walked through that door before.”

“Hm...” Cole frowns lightly, as though thinking of something - and then his face lights up with realization:

“Oh! You’ve been here before, but not with me. Fen’Harel brought you; you’re starting to remember.”

Neilar reaches into his memory and finds nothing but a sense of faint familiarity. If he ever was here, it must have happened during one of the blackouts, when… he’s still not sure _what_ happened when he wasn’t around, actually.

“You were unconscious,” Cole says. “I saw him bring you in; I tried to listen, but the voices were too loud for me to reach you. They fell quiet in that room, though; he helped them return.”

“...Return to what?”

“To the others,” Cole shrugs, as though that should explain everything.

Stepping through the doorway, Neilar glances around; it’s a wide chamber with a dome-shaped ceiling, and the walls are barely visible behind heaps of blocks and wires and blinking lights, technology the purpose of which he can’t even begin to imagine.

In the center, there are a few tables with screens set on them, all arranged around a strange horizontal pod with cables plugged into it. As he looks the setup over, a pinch of headache tugs behind his eyes and his vision blurs; he blinks and the feeling is gone, but it leaves an uneasy aftertaste, making him pause and listen for distinct whispers in the white noise of his thoughts.

He doesn’t find any; it doesn’t feel so, at least.

“Cole,” Neilar says, “Do you know what happened here?”

“No - sorry. It was too loud,” Cole repeats.

Neilar steps further into the room.

Maybe it’s just his imagination, but the air is colder in here - though it would make sense, with all those devices that probably need cooling. He makes his way through the wires and past the tables; most of the screens are dark and there are no chairs by most of them, the tables holding them covered in dust.

Then, a light catches his eye; an active screen.

He rounds the table to get a better look at it; the center of a display is taken by an image, a pattern of intertwining lines. Neilar glances at his reflection in a nearby inactive monitor, and conforms his suspicion - it’s the same pattern as the lyrium lines on his face. Around it, lines of text; the letters are familiar by now, the same strange language, the one from his scarce memories, the one he spoke to Fen’Harel. The headache resumes when he tries to read into them, but even his hazy vision picks up a few words: _synchronization_ , _status_ , _complete_.

There’s another word that stands out to him, written right beside the image and much larger in size; a name.

_Ghilan’nain._

The name is familiar; at first he runs into darkness again when trying to reach it, but it resides further in his memory, before the blackout. But where?...

A family photograph. His parents’ wedding. His father’s Keeper wouldn’t let him marry outside the clan’s traditions, even though his wife was from the city; she had the Dalish patterns drawn on her face for the ceremony. _They stayed for weeks,_ she’d say as part of the story, and laugh: _some people I knew would think I actually joined the clan._

Ghilan’nain - the Creator that pattern represented. Mother of the halla, but now known best as the goddess of guidance - that’s why his mother chose her.

...This doesn’t make any sense.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he repeats out loud, not knowing why; Cole would understand anything he needed from his thoughts anyone.

“Why?” Cole asks, approaching from the other side, leaning over the monitor and trying to look at the pattern too.

“That’s a Dalish pattern. It’s been a while since I saw it, but - it is. Why - why would it be there? What does Solas have to do with the Dalish?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Cole says:

“...What does "The Dalish" mean?”

Neilar stares at him baffed for a moment - and then remembers:

“You’ve never been outside.”

Cole nods.

“The Dalish are… They’re people that live in clans and have a religion of their own. These tattoos are part of their tradition.” Neilar points at the monitor. “This,” he says, “Is Ghilan’nain’s pattern; she’s one of the Creators - the Dalish gods.”

“Oh,” Cole says. “Thank you for explaining.”

Neilar lets out a laugh; of all things, explaining Dalish culture isn’t something he expected to be doing right now.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “My dad’s Dalish, so - I picked up the basics. I bet he or people from the clan would explain it better.”

He steps away from the monitor, looks at it and the pod in the center of the room.

“...This must be where I got those, then,” he adds, touching the lines on his chin and feeling the soreness around them. “He gave me Ghilan’nain’s pattern - in lyrium. That’s...” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure what to think about that.”

He walks around the table, steps closer to the pod; unlike most of the tables, it’s perfectly clean, glinting in the bright light. The material looks like plastic, but feels like metal to the touch - and it’s easy to imagine the way it would open. It’s quite narrow, but an average human would still fit inside without an issue.

On a glance, some of the cables coming out of it can probably be traced back to that display they just looked at.

Was he _in there?_ It sure seems like it. The implications are… less than ideal; he’s been in the Association enough to see a convoluted human-experiment station when he sees one. He’s entered quite a few of those, some of them willingly - but Creators know he’d bail if that experiment included injecting lyrium under his skin.

“Cole… Just how do you know this isn’t going to kill me?” he asks quietly.

“The lyrium?”

Neilar nods.

“It knows the People,” Cole says. “It knows not to harm you.”

“And you know that, because?...”

“It’s in the way it sings; it’s calm. It doesn’t mind being inside you.”

He can’t help but chuckle nervously at the last words.

“Does… does it mind if _I_ mind it being inside me?”

Cole shrugs:

“I don’t think it cares.”

“Well, that’s… good. Because I do. I really, really do.”

This is about it for the room; they should probably get out of here and move on, but something - curiosity? - makes him linger by the pod, brushing his hand over the shiny surface.

 _I was here,_ Neilar thinks. _I was here, and I can’t remember any of_ it.

If only he knew what happened here; what was done to him. If only he knew how it served Solas’ goals, and _what_ are those goals, and what is the Well of Sorrows.

It’s just not fair. He was right here, in that room, and he was part of whatever happened - but it didn’t earn him anything, just this damn hum in his head and ghosts of voices that aren’t here anymore, and a headache.

It’s growing stronger by the second; this time, when it comes, he doesn’t manage to blink it away at all. Neilar groans and squeezes his eyes shut, only to open them to an even hazier picture of the world; he lets go of the pod and has to catch himself from swaying out of balance.

“...Neilar?” Cole calls out, voice rising.

“I’m fine,” he replies, “Well, I’m not - it’s that damn headache, and  - “

Neilar doesn’t finish the sentence; the pain rises again, pulsing, forcing him to bury his face in his palms and double over, cursing through his teeth. He hears Cole calling for him again, but at that point something _snaps_ behind his eyes, a flash of bright light out of nowhere as his senses go blank and he loses track of his whereabouts entirely.

The world returns to being blissfully dark soon enough - but it’s not a quiet darkness; from within it, a noise is approaching, monotone, louder and louder. The howling of hundreds of voices, _the voices,_ and they are _real._

It drills at his focus, suffocating every thought that tries to arise, suffocating _him_ ; his heart is pounding as he struggles for breath and barely draws any air in, waves of panic coursing through his brain as he realizes his body won’t obey any of his commands.

His vision clears slightly, enough to tell light from darkness, enough to make out a silhouette towering above him.

Another flash - and the voices fall silent; he gasps in relief, breating again, stable. Nothing is more tempting than simply drifting away - but something stops him, pulls his mind back together and sharpens his focus.

As though from far away, Neilar hears his own voice speak:

“Link synchronized. Awaiting assignment.”

“Evanuri Fen’Harel,” the silhouette says in Solas’ voice.

“Assignment received. Awaiting commands.”

There is a lingering pause - and then Solas says:

“...Do not leave the base.”

“Understood.”

With that, the world blurs.

He resurfaces into reality collapsed on the floor, shaking; the serenity that flooded his mind in the memory disappears just like the sight of Solas, leaving him with ringing in his ears and his heart drumming in panic again, his thoughts full of dissonant whispers he doesn’t understand.

Neilar pushes himself up - trembling even with this small effort, - and sees Cole kneeling by his side, eyes wide with worry and the line of devices by the wall shining through his figure.

Some of that worry goes away once their eyes meet; Cole exhales in relief, shoulders dropping down.

“You’re back,” he whispers, voice uneven. “You’re - you’re back. I’m so glad - I - I didn’t know what to do.”

Neilar tries to speak back, but all that comes out is meaningless stuttering; in-detween the hissing voices, Solas’ words echo, _do not leave the base._ The sheer thought of leaving this room, this place, now fills him with fear. Why?... Because he doesn’t know what will happen. He doesn’t - but - but it will be something bad.

_Do not leave the base._

He breathes in, nearly choking on the air he pulls into his lungs, and then exhales, pushing against the panic. He feels something strange, like a cold breeze against his cheek - and then sees Cole’s hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t feel the touch, but he _feels_ better.

“Thank you,” he says weakly.

One more breath - and he pushes again, against the floor, forcing himsef to stand. To keep moving. He starts walking; Cole hurries after him.

“Neilar, I - is there anything I can do? Please, tell me - I can’t… I can’t hear.”

“We need to move,” he says. “Quick. I don’t know what, but something’s coming. Where to?”

Cole gives him one more concerned look - but then nods, and takes the lead again:

“Over here.”

“Good,” Neilar mutters. “Good.”

He has a feeling they might be running out of time.


	22. Disobedience

Shadows are scarce in this part of the base, shrunken in the bright light of many lamps embedded in the ceiling and in the walls - and Neilar finds himself yearning for the familiarity of narrow dark hallways. The lights appear uneven to him, dimming and flashing to burn his eyes repeatedly; each flash resurrects his headache, each dimming brings up the voices, waves upon waves of things all fighting for his thoughts all at once, and above them all, the fear.

It doesn’t falter, doesn’t disappear, only growing louder in his ears; nothing but a distinct feeling of _we shouldn’t be doing this, this won’t end well_. He pushes it away, tries to lock it out in a long-practiced manner - but it finds its way through the cracks in his defenses and constricts around his throat and chest again, slows his movements.

He does his best to ignore it, still.

_Do not leave the base. Do not leave the base. Do not leave the base…_

...Creators, he’s going crazy. He’s genuinely, truly going insane. He can take the voices, Neilar thinks, he can deal with traitors and lies and lyrium and gaps in his memory - but right now, slowly but surely, he feels the control over his own body slipping away. Nothing brings relief, closing his eyes or keeping them open, breathing slowly or quickly; each step he takes feels like the worst decision he could possibly make.

He grinds his teeth and keeps taking them, filing away at his nerves, and wishes it would just hurt instead.

_Do not… Leave… The base._

Eventually, saying nothing, Cole slows down until they’re walking side by side and puts his hand on Neilar’s shoulder again. His touch is as cold as it was the first time, and it brings a wave of relief - not silencing the fear, but drowning it just enough to ease the travel.

“He gave you a command,” Cole says, and Neilar hears a note of worry in his voice. “I didn’t know that.”

“...Is that bad?”

“I don’t know, but I can hear it hurts. I’m sorry, I - I don’t think I can take it away.”

“That’s alright,” he says. “You’re already doing enough.”

He reaches to pat Cole’s hand - and only remembers he can’t when his fingers pass right through the ghostly figure.

Cole shakes his head.

“No - there must be something else I can do. There must be.”

Neilar thinks for a moment.

“...You know what,” he says, “Talk to me. Tell me something; that’ll leave me less time to focus on the weird things.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cole perk up so fast that his hood falls off.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll do that. What should I say?”

“Well, uh… Where are we going, for example? Tell me how we’re going to get out.”

“We’re going to walk through this corridor,” Cole says, “And then we’re going to turn left, and walk through a room, and there’s another corridor...”

He lists several more turns; Neilar loses track somewhere along the middle, but the soft, semi-monotone sound of Cole’s voice is definitely better than the silence, louder and more distinct than the voices in his head. He manages to steady his breaths, find a rhythm to walk to.

“...And then we’re going to walk through the main exit,” Cole continues in the meantime. “There are two, but this one is right before the gate.”

 _The gate._ Among a list of corridors and chambers too intricate to listen to, those words catch his attention; it’s not the first time Cole mentions a gate.

“What’s the gate?” he asks.

“It will get you home,” Cole answers. “But...” there’s a moment of hesitation before he finishes the sentence, “But you’ll have to go in the in-between first.”

Neilar frowns. How concerned should he be if even Cole is for some reason unsure about that… gate?

“The in-between,” he repeats.

“Yes. It’s… It’s very dark and cold, and you will think it’s empty,” Cole says. “Humans shouldn’t go there - but you’re of the People, so it will let you stay, not for long, though.”

“...It’s _conscious_?”

“No?... I - I don’t know. I never heard it hurting, even though you have to tear through to get out.”

“Tear through,” Neilar mutters, echoing Cole again for lack of better reaction; he doesn’t understand a word of this, not really - though what he can guess from them already worries him.

“It will be fine,” Cole says hurriedly. “You don’t need to be scared; I’ll go there with you and show you how to do everything. I know it very well; it’s where I wait when no one’s here or it’s too loud to get out.”

“Oh. Well… That’s good.” It _really_ is. “...Tell me more about the in-between,” Neilar asks.

“You… don’t see when you’re in there, not really. Dark, deafening - it feels like quiet, dead, but it’s not true. There’s doors - scars. They’re everywhere, and if you wait there enough, you can hear them - what’s on the other side. You probably shouldn’t wait that long, though.”

Maybe it’s good that he doesn’t understand what Cole is referring to; this way he can’t latch onto the small details and fuel his unease with the worrying undertones in every word. Instead, he just tries to imagine the picture Cole paints, something like a night sky, but… different.

Caught up in this, Neilar doesn’t even notice how corridors and rooms pass by; the fear of leaving turns small and somewhere in the back of his mind. It’s only when they stop and Cole gestures to another set of doors, heavy and tall, that he realizes they’ve reached their destination.

“The exit,” Cole says. “The gate is right behind.”

Neilar watches him approach a keypad in the wall, typing something in and bringing the doors to life, as they begin to slide apart slowly, light coming through the growing gap between them.

He sees a sky, grey and completely monotone, yet somehow bright; beneath it, yellow ground littered with rocks. Wind blows through the gap, ruffles his hair, dry and almost devoid of temperature, but still slightly warmer than the base’s confines.

A smile slowly comes across his face - and with the same breath, his stomach turns with dread.

_Do not leave the base._

_Well, screw you, Fen’Harel,_ Neilar thinks and begins walking towards the doors.

No panic attack, no voice in his head can stop him now; he’s getting out of here, and he’s getting back to Dorian.

The landscape outside welcomes him with more light and more wind; he breathes in. This air smells almost sterile, with a hint of ozone and… smoke? It’s a strange mix, and it sends goosebumps up his spine for some reason.

He takes one more step. For a split second, it feels as though the headache is about to rise again as his vision blurs - but then, the image before his eyes sways and doubles. A familiar prickling feeling creeps under his skin, and with his next exhale, he watches a shadow shoot out; the double images detach from each other, he stumbles back on instinct, and for a moment Neilar finds himself looking through two pairs of eyes. Then, the second image cuts off, and he’s left staring into the expressionless, flaring eyes of his shadow.

The first thing he feels is relief. With the lyrium, he was reluctant to use his powers; doing that without proper training is generally a very, very bad idea, and he’s glad the shadows still work.

The second thing he feels is unease, since he hasn’t summoned one of those on accident in a really long time.

As those thoughts flash in his head, the shadow suddenly opens its mouth.

“ _Violation of protocol,_ ” it says in a distorted echo of Neilar’s own voice - and in the language he isn’t supposed to understand. “ _Unsanctioned attempt to leave the base._ ”

That’s when unease turns into fear and he freezes, unable to look away from the wispy features - not a perfect copy of his own face, but still similar, far too similar for comfort when they move without his command and a voice comes out, speaking things he did not order it to say.

The shadow steps forward.

“ _Obey your commander,_ ” it says and reaches for him.

Somewhere far away, he hears Cole’s voice call:

“Neilar - watch out!”

This breaks the trance and he leans out of the hand’s way, stepping back; the shadow’s eyes narrow. Neilar forces himself not to run, stares at it, focuses his aching mind as hard as he can on the sense of its presence and orders:

“Go away.”

The shadow’s hand pulls back and, for a moment, it stands still. Then, he sees the beginning of movement in their feet and shoulders; a slight shift, one he might have not caught had it not been _him_.

He shifts his own position at the same time; just as the last word rings out, the shadow lunges forward.

Neilar dodges out of the way; it takes all his resolve not to turn heel and run at that very moment - which wouldn’t have been very wise. He doesn’t need to see the shadow regroup and strike out to know it does; he catches its hand in the air and twists it, pulling the opponent closer to him and slamming it into the wall, then grabbing its head and bashing it into the wall twice more until the shadow dissipates into bitter smoke.

His vision splits out into way more pictures this time, and six shadows arise from the first one’s remains, blocking the exit, turning towards him in unison; six presences in his mind.

Neilar's heart sinks. He tries to estimate his chances. He breathes in.

“ _Obey your commander,_ ” his voice says six times, and none of them is Neilar himself speaking.

“Cole - _run!_ ” he shouts, and bolts in the direction they just came from.

 


	23. Alone

He runs.

Shadows drip off his skin as he does; a wave of goosebumps, a blur - and a copy tumbles out, smoke congealing into a humanlike form, but by the time the flaring eyes open, Neilar has gained just enough distance to stay out of reach. Run, run and don’t look back, the only instinct driving him right now and most likely the only thing keeping him alive.

Around him, the base is coming to life. Lights turn on as others dim down, the howl of sirens blooming through the air as heavy metal doors begin to close, barriers slide into place to shut off ways of escape.

Cole’s presence is just a tiny corner of awareness in Neilar’s mind, his voice more a thought than a sound - and it gives him the second’s warning he desperately needs to keep up with the chase.

_“Left! Left now!”_

_“The stairs! Down!”_

_“No, no, no, don’t close, please, we’re friends!...”_

He can hear, _sense_ his shadows everywhere; footsteps on the floor above, on the other side of the wall, presences all around, presences in his mind like burning markers, bright and distracting and too many to keep track of. His head is aching with the effort to keep at least some awareness of their whereabouts without splitting into dozens of pictures of reality from different shadows’ eyes.

New ones no longer appear, and that must mean he has reached his limit. A thousand a day, but at once?... He’d managed maybe ten, before. _This_ is way more than ten.

Something’s helping them. Something’s taking them away from him, turning them against him. Or is it?

No time to think. Too many of them, too many and he’ll get tired sooner or later, and they will not. But he can’t stop. They can feel him, the same way he can feel them. It never occurred to him it might be a two-sided connection, but now he just _knows_.

Where is he going?

“There’s another exit!” Cole calls, answering his thought. “I’ll bring you there!... It’s going to be alright, I promise - “

His words cut off with a deafening crashing noise as a door comes off its hinges right in front of them and shadows pour through, blocking the hallway; Neilar barely manages to catch himself against the wall and freezes, staring. His heart is nearly bursting with adrenaline - but the fear that takes over him in that moment is a still, creeping kind of terror, as for an infinitely long moment the shadows stare back instead of charging right away.

They wait, _deliberately_. They want to see what he does.

He wants to scream.

What he does instead is turn himself around and shoot off into a still-open hallway - and the shadows swarm after, running footsteps drumming across the floor, unintelligible whispers filling the air.

He can feel the distance closing. He can’t fight them, not all of them. The moment he takes one out, his own powers will just make more. He can’t - 

“Find a door with two green lights,” Cole’s voice whispers in his ear, “Just in the end of this corridor, and then go always right, and you’ll be outside. The gate is there!...”

And, with that, all of a sudden, his presence is gone.

Neilar can’t allow himself to stop; even as his mind comes to a halt, his body keeps flinging itself forward as he runs, runs, runs - and the distance between him and the shadow begins to grow again.

A sharp pain in the back of his eyes, and his vision distorts into a grainy mess before snapping back - and suddenly he’s further back in the corridor, and he’s standing still, even though he feels himself still running and falling and scrambling forward.

Cole is standing in front of him, arms outstretched forward; he’s saying something, pleading, from the tone of his voice.

Neilar realizes he’s watching through the eyes of a shadow.

The shadow lunges forward sharply and, to Neilar’s surprise and relief, Cole dodges swiftly; there’s no counterattack - he just slinks away and keeps talking, taking a step towards the shadows again.

The shadow narrows its eyes, eases its stance. Allows him to get closer - and then, when Cole is within an arm’s reach, its hand closes around his throat. It _closes_ \- Cole’s eyes go wide as the shadow lifts him up and slams him against the wall; his hands rise up, trying to release the shadow’s grip, but it presses further and further and - 

Neilar can almost feel the thin snap under the shadow’s fingers. Cole goes limp. It’s a still image for one horrible second - and then, his body just dissipates, leaving the shadow empty-handed.

Gone.

The image distorts again, throwing Neilar back out into his own reality, down on his knees on the metal floor; the pain behind his eyes is unbearable and his stomach is twisting itself into knots over knots. He tastes blood in his mouth.

Cole.

How?... _He_ couldn’t touch him. He _couldn’t_ touch him, why could the shadows? How? 

Creators. He’s gone. He’s gone, and Neilar might as well have done it himself.

He folds, heaving with an empty spasm of his stomach; Cole’s wide-eyed stare is burned into the back of his mind.

The shadows are closing in. How will he get out alone?

Neilar looks up, and realizes he’s kneeling in front of a closed door with two green lights blinking just above the frame.

_And from there, always go right._

He tears himself away from the ground and forces the door open. Just as he does, the running footsteps come drumming after him from behind the corner, the presence swelling up in his mind; he darts in and shuts the door behind himself, hoping it’ll give the shadows a pause - and hears a faint hissing sound. When he glances over his shoulders, the lights above the door have gone red and the shadows are throwing themselves against the locked exit helplessly.

He cut them off.

For a moment Neilar just stares, transfixed - and then he turns around and takes off running.

The walls shoot past him, a blur of metal and lights; no more doors in his way, just a winding corridor that takes him to a staircase, sends him flying up the stairs - and from there it’s a narrow and straight pathway with a door that slides open before he even approaches, spitting him out.

Sending him stumbling into an open landscape.

Grey sky, rocky ground. It seems dead, at first, the air nearly ringing with stillness - but before he can get a proper look, a ripple passes through his mind, and everything changes.

The sky turns blue, not vibrant, but a faint, diluted light blue - and under this sky, the ground seems less like a desert and more like a rocky cliffside. There are trees also, skeletal wiry shapes at first glance, but when Neilar blinks, they spring leaves and flowers, splashes of color. It's as though everything has a halo around it, a trailing blur in his vision before his eyes adjust.

He feels a cool breeze brush past, and it smells like rain.

His eyes water with light and relief both; he skitters to a halt, taking the sight in for just a moment, breathing in. His mouth tastes like iron, his lungs are burning and his heart is going insane within his chest, his mind is absently noting countless bruises from collisions and stumbles, the lack of Cole by his side is a scorching void of an empty space, but he’s free. Free, free, free.

The door of the base slides closed behind his back, sealing itself, and the shadows, the presences, the sirens are left far behind.

Neilar turns to take a look at his prison, the upper level of it, at least. It’s a plain construction from the outside, rectangular walls and no windows at all, but there’s something… strange about it. There are no sharp angles, everything is smoothed out and curved and welded together in a way that seems almost organic, almost monolith. And the way it meets the ground - at the slightest angle, as though the building was _submerged_ into the stone rather than built into it.

It’s unsettling, and looking at it for too long reminds him of the other exit, and the gate. He doesn’t know how much time it’ll take the shadows to get the base out of lockdown and head for the main exit to meet him there, but he has a feeling it won’t be long.

Some part of him is tempted to peek through his pursuers’ eyes, see what they’re doing, but his stomach turns painfully at the thought. He doesn’t do it.

Instead, he takes a step, and another, and picks up the pace until he’s running again, circling the building until _the gate_ comes into view.

It’s an elegant arching frame on a low stone pedestal with some stairs leading up to it - towering almost taller than the base itself and facing its exit perfectly. It’s also perfectly empty.

Neilar stops in front of it. The landscape beyond the gate looks exactly the same as the landscape on his side. It’s just… an arc, and yet, something tells him this is it. Cole’s words - and also a faint feeling of familiarity he can’t explain, as if he’s been here before.

He walks up to the arc. Puts his hand on the side of it. Slightly warm metal, a little dusty. He puts a hand forward, into the space trapped inside the arc. Thin air. He walks through and past it, and finds himself staring at it from a different angle, and that’s all.

Neilar closes his eyes and exhales slowly. The frantic pounding of his heart definitely isn’t helping; there’s clearly some secret to this “gate” that Cole knew and he does not. He needs to calm down and think, think. Creators damn it!... Why can’t he remember a single word Cole said about it?

He circles the gate and takes a few steps back, examining the supposed front of it. His mind is entirely blank.

He misses having an earpiece. He misses having Dorian’s voice narrate his mission, making sarcastic remarks that force him to bite back a smile or a laugh. Pointing out things Neilar hasn’t noticed, solving the riddles of his surroundings from miles away. Guiding him through.

Dorian would take one look at this gate and have ten theories on how it could be activated. But Dorian isn’t there - it’s just him, Neilar, and Neilar’s never been a thinker.

 _No. Stop,_ he orders himself. _Stop and focus. Remember what Cole said. Somewhere in his words there’s a key, there must be, he wouldn’t leave you without a way out._

Neilar tries to remember, concentrating so hard it makes his head hurt - or that’s what he assumes to be the source of the headache, at least, for exactly one moment before splitting pain digs into his brain and forces him down to his knees screaming, shatters his vision into fragments and reassembles it into an image of the base’s interior again.

He’s watching through the eyes of a shadow again. It’s a crowded room full of screens and full of shadows, lights flickering and green eyes burning in the dimly lit space. The sirens, as far as he can tell, are gone; it’s perfectly silent.

The shadows are still. They don’t touch anything. They can't, Neilar realizes. They somehow know the layout of the base and its boundaries, but they can't operate it.

If not for the pain, he would burst laughing.

“His” shadow looks around. Then, it moves, slow steps until it reaches a wall and sets a hand against it. Looks around again.

The world blurs in a sharp motion as it hits its head against the wall. The noise is much like a firecracker popping. It sways a little, then throws its head back and hits the wall again - 

And falls apart into a cloud of smoke.

His vision flickers back into reality, just in time to feel the familiar crawling in his skin, to feel a shadow separate; he desperately tries to recoil, to stop it, but it’s too late - a copy of himself tears away and throws itself at him immediately, tackling him to the ground. As he struggles against it and finally throws it away, another shadow reforms and joins the fight.

He reached his limit. He reached the limit of shadows, and the bloody things _figured it out_ and realized that if they die, they’ll form again _right where he is_.

He doesn’t need the double vision to know more and more shadows are destroying themselves inside that base right now, because the shivers shooting up his spine become unbearable, all of his nerves straining under multiple shadows aching to crawl out again; it’s a pile of wispy figures around him and he swipes blindly, trying to find his way out.

The gate. The gate!...

A hand catches his shirt from behind; some another figure trips him at the same time, and, just as he’s managed to stand up, he’s down again. Hands on his neck, on his mouth, shadows blocking all light, suffocating him, his own eyes burning green from featureless faces staring as he chokes - 

Panic courses through his veins, sharp, tugging and stinging, like an electrical impulse propelling him up and forward and _out_. He kicks away a shadow, feels his elbow impact another one, throws himself against their many-handed grip and struggles wildly until it slips. He bursts out of the shadow coccoon and runs for his life, towards the empty gate, no longer thinking. There’s no time to think. He needs _out_ , and he needs to reach the gate. He feels the shadows closing in, a hunting party cornering him. The gate is so close. So close. The shadows are fast and many, but they’re stumbling too, trampling each other, the bitter scent of smoke spilled in the air.

A hand grabs his shoulder, tugs him back, but it’s not enough to stop him. He throws himself forward and through the gate, falling down, down, down with the wispy weight of a shadow at his back; others reach out to catch him just as he crosses the threshold between _here_ and _there_ , but the momentum just pulls them through as well.

He doesn’t hit the ground. Instead, the air becomes drainingly cold, knocking all breath out of him, and all the light fades - and, suddenly, he’s drifting. The shadow’s grip on his shoulder turns unusually solid; he claws at it and meets something almost stone or ice-like, and then, it crumbles away under his touch.

He’s floating in the middle of a pitch-black void, but, all around, there’s a faint hum, many tones from many sources. He closes his eyes, and each note is a star, a tiny light. A tear in space, a door in the _in-between_.

Cole said!... Cole said he needs to find the right one. Cole also said he shouldn’t linger, and Neilar can feel why; it’s getting harder to think by the moment, as well as to move. He’s been holding his breath for several seconds, and he begins to suspect he won’t get a chance to take another breath in here.

He reaches a hand out blindly, grabbing something, pulling himself forward with surprising speed. Is that what space feels like? 

There’s one note that sounds slightly louder than all the others, and he angles himself towards it. His fingers have already lost all feeling. He grabs something solid, cracked but still writhing weakly as he pushes himself off it and feels the matter crumble away at the impact. Another shadow's remains?

It’s so cold. By comparison, the temperature of his own body feels like he’s burning alive. He doesn’t dare to open his eyes. It’s so cold. He reaches out and feels nothing. It’s so cold.

The faint, humming sound is the only thing left in his mind anymore; he claws desperately at the emptiness, trying to bring himself closer - and it’s as though a current picks him up, the smallest push enough to bring his fingers to a source of warmth, to an edge, and he grabs it, and he tears it wide open.

He falls, and he falls, and he falls - and then, there’s warm wind on his face, and his back hits a hard surface as his eyes shoot open and find a different blackness; a sky illuminated with street lights and rooftops. 

All around him, a night city is moving, living, breathing, singing. He gasps and pants, shaking his head almost drunkenly, dizzy with light and sound and gravity - and then deflates, groaning as the back of his head hits the ground. He feels a pavement under his fingers.

He’s back. Somewhere. And there is no presence of shadows in his mind.

“Thank you, Cole,” he whispers, choked-up and rasping. “...Thank you.”

 


	24. Return

It takes a few moments until Neilar finally brings himself to push up and away from the ground; a weakness washes over him, spinning his head and sending a ringing through his ears, but it’s a familiar feeling, and he’s powered through it countless times before. Pushing yourself back up is one of the first things you learn, in this line of work.

After the almost artificial-feeling air of… whatever that place was, the warmth and the smells around feel almost solid, not all pleasant, but the sheer fact of their existence is a relief. He never thought he’d be so glad to smell cigarette smoke.

The hour is late. A quick look around places him in some sort of neighborhood; he turns around and glimpses familiar decorations stretching between lampposts. The market is nearby - Ostwick. He’s back in Ostwick.

Neilar exhales slowly, scrambling his thoughts together. He needs to get to the base. He needs to report… he needs to report Solas to the Association. And his findings. And… Creators, what is he thinking? He needs to find Dorian. First and foremost. Find out what happened. Fill in the gaps.

He also needs to do something about the lyrium worked into his skin, at some point. 

Is it the reason for… his shadows turning on him? That corner of his mind is quiet, now, no presences around - but _something_ caused them to do things he didn’t tell them to do.

The voices are gone, too, and he feels there might be a correlation between the two.

Did the voices take over his shadows? But that was before the lyrium. And his memories… Memories of Solas - Fen’Harel. _Evanuri Fen’Harel._ What on earth is an Evanuri?

A figure of authority, if his blurry memories is anything to go by; a figure he, Neilar, has disobeyed. And it seems like he’s gotten away with it, just barely - with a few bruises and scratches, and… Cole. Creators above, Cole.

Neilar runs a hand over his face. There’s a dull, hollow pulse behind his eyes, and some part of his brain still echoes with the noise of everything that’s happened. Cole’s voice is one of those noises, as well as the image of Neilar’s own shadow grabbing him by the throat. He forces those thoughts as deep and far away as he can, for now. Later. There will be time for that later.

In this line of work, stuffing all sorts of nightmares away is about the second thing you learn to do.

His mind blanks for a while - maybe just a moment, and maybe several minutes; he doesn’t know. He only realizes it happened at all when, suddenly, he regains awareness of his own body and snaps back into reality, taking his hand off his face, wincing as the street lights’ glow pierces his vision and blinking the haze away.

The haze is why he doesn’t notice it right away - a dark figure standing across the streets, staring at him, just out of the circle of light provided by a nearby lamp. To a regular human’s eyes, it might as well have been invisible - but Neilar hasn’t been a regular human for a long time now.

His heart drops; his lips part in a silent _no, please_.

The silhouette opens two glowing eyes, dots in the darkness.

How? How? _How?_

A single second of silence and stillness stretched into eternity - and then Neilar turns and runs.

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. The shadows can sense him, and the streets of Ostwick are no secret base he can lock them in - and they’ve figured that part too, by now.

Soft, barely audible footsteps against pavement following him - and then they’re gone; Neilar almost halts, and then registers, in the corner of his eye, a dark smear shooting up a nearby building.

He curses and rounds a sharp corner; the shadow simply leaps after, balcony to balcony, glowing eyes tracking him in the dark, silent. How is he going to lose it?

He’ll have to fight, he realizes. The only way to get rid of these shadows for good is to wear himself down until he can’t summon any more of them - and then he’ll have the hours of silence he needs to get where he wants to be and tell his story. Then, they can do whatever they want; he’s not going back. The Association won’t let him.

He’s been told his body holds the capability for a thousand summons, but they’ve never tested that theory in practice. How many is he down already? 

Not nearly enough, is the likely answer. But what choice does he have? To keep running forever? He can’t go anywhere with this. He can’t let them hurt anyone else.

He ducks into a narrow alleyway, halting as he catches himself against the wall and crouches down just slightly, scanning the balconies above for movement. It doesn’t take long to spot it, a figure making its way across, leaping and climbing and dropping down. Just one. Is he getting tired already, or is the force operating his copies just holding back to throw all of them at him at the last moment?

He forces himself to stay in place even as the figure gets closer and eventually stops, perching on a ledge right above him, staring down. He stares back.

There’s barely any windup to the motion; suddenly, it just drops down at him, arms outstretched to grab him, and in the next moment the back of his head hits the ground. 

It’s a silent struggle; he manages to break free and kick the shadow away. It hits the opposite wall and hisses, jumping to its feet as Neilar has done the same - and, before he knows it, he’s charged again. It takes being thrown against the wall himself and retaliating to notice his opponent’s grip feels eerily solid, almost like a real person’s, and it no longer fights like _him_.

What’s happening?

The moment’s confusion costs him his reaction time; before he knows it, he’s on the ground again, and his hands are twisted painfully behind his back. A weight presses on him from above, keeping him from moving or struggling.

In the silence that spills around, he hears heavy breathing. Human, not a distorted echo. The grip on him is way too real to be a shadow, and he can feel the body holding him down radiating warmth.

The stranger exhales, bringing his breath to a steadier pace, and it fades into a hoarse chuckle at the end.

“Well, light me on fire and call me the Maker’s Bride... Neilar Lavellan. You do exist!”

What the?...

“...Who are you?” Neilar manages. “How do you know me?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it,” the stranger agrees with a grin clear in his voice. There’s a small pause, and then, he says:

“How about that: you stop trying to kick my teeth out, and I give you answers. Sound fair?”

“Sounds fair.”

“...Alright, I'm letting you go now," the stranger says. "No running.”

With that, the weight shifts off him - and, as Neilar pushes himself up, a hand extends towards him. He grabs it without thinking - and the stranger pulls him up with strength that would be surprising had Neilar not fought him just now. A little taller than him, a similarly thin frame dressed in all black. Dark skin, eyes glowing brightly in the lightless space of the alley. Wide smile, pointed teeth.

Now Neilar feels like a complete idiot for even thinking he was a shadow. There wasn’t a single presence in his mind - but all it took for him to abandon reason was a dark silhouette and a pair of glowing eyes. And they’re nothing alike! What kind of idiot is he, to mistake a human being for his own copy?

Well… _Human being_ is a flexible term, with the more unusual parts of this stranger’s appearance and the way he leapt between buildings, moving almost weightless and soundless through space.

“You’re superhuman,” Neilar states flatly.

The stranger shrugs and nods a little, eyes glimmering with what could very well be amusement. 

“Name’s Das.” He gives Neilar’s hand a shake before releasing it. “...You Association folks like me better as ‘the Bloodhound’, though.”

Bloodhound... That sounds vaguely familiar, but he can't put his finger on it. Has this guy ever been a volunteer? He's definitely not a member, if his choice of words is anything to go by.

“...And you know me how?”

“Friend of yours called in a favor, wanted me to find you. And, right until now, I thought I couldn't. But here the day starts coming to an end, my tracking's just about to run out - and there you are! You're one lucky blighter, you know. Or unlucky." Das chuckles. "Depends on whether or not you're glad to be found." 

Suddenly, Das leans closer in, tilting his head to the side as he studies Neilar's face; his idle smile gives way to something sharper and more intent. Neilar's first instinct is to back away, but he forces it down, meeting the glowing eyes instead.

"Dunno where in the blighted Void you were, Shadow," Das tells him, "But - just so you know - you weren’t existing on this earth for a while. And I don't mean that as a figure of speech.”

"It's a lot of things you've said just now," Neilar says slowly. His mind is only half in these words, the rest of his attention dedicated to dissecting the last few sentences. "...What kind of friend are we talking about?"

"A good friend. That's what she said, at least. _Is_ Lightning your good friend?"

...Evelyn? _Evelyn_ called in a favor with a non-Association hero?

"Just how on earth did you owe _Lightning_ a favor?"

"Well, technically, she called in _Hawke's_ favor - "

"Hawke is involved?!"

Das takes another long look at him and shakes his head.

"...Right. I get the feeling you don't know a lot of what's going on. That's... not really an outside conversation." He glances around. "Anyone else following you?"

Neilar thinks about the shadows, about the creeping terror of his own misbehaving powers.

"No."

Das' eyes narrow as they return to him.

"Then what were you running from?"

Neilar blinks.

"...You?"

"Yeah, but you weren't _expecting_ me when you took off running."

"You don't know that."

"Well, now that you're all defensive about it I sure do."

There's a long, tense moment of silence. 

"...Why do you care?" Neilar asks, finally.

"I'm asking because I'm taking you someplace safe - and, y'know, safe places are usually safer if you don't have any danger following you right in."

"I..." Neilar exhales flatly, not finding the right words. What's even happening? Just a moment ago, they were fighting, and now... Evelyn sent him? He's offering help? That sounds almost too good to be true. The last person to claim he was sent by the Association ended up stabbing him with a syringe and seizing command over the voices in his head.

"Why were you chasing me?" he asks. Now it's Das' turn to blink and stare at him, confused.

"You ran," he says slowly, as though stating the obvious.

"So you stalked me from balconies and jumped down to fight me? If Evelyn really hired you, why not just yell that at me?"

Das' confused expression cracks into a smile; he shakes his head and claps Neilar's shoulder with a little laugh.

"Mate," he says, "I'm the Bloodhound. People bring me other people's blood so I can track them. Most of these cases, yelling the name of whoever sent me only makes them run faster."

"And a good old chase always works," Neilar mutters.

"Exactly."

Alright, he thinks. Alright. This one... is almost definitely not an enemy. 

"No one is following me," Neilar says. Quieter, he adds, "...It's my powers. They're out of control."

Das frowns.

"...Care to elaborate? What are we dealing with, here?"

"A swarm of angry shadows that want to drag me back to wherever I came from."

Das' eyebrows rise a little; he hums and nods.

"Alright. I can work with that."

"...It's a lot of shadows."

"I'll keep that in mind," Das promises.

The next thing Neilar knows, Das grabs his arm and pulls him somewhere further down the alley - and, still slightly dazed, Neilar stumbles after in silence. In that, he thinks, he may be making a mistake. He's almost certainly making a mistake. Even if Das is a friend - what is he going to do when thirty shadows are going to show up in his safehouse? Neilar is the very danger he's trying to avoid.

But right now, his mind is devoid of presences, and, Creators above, he's exhausted. He needs to pick his battles - and the next one may be terrible no matter what he does, so he'll try to hold on to any help he can get. With some luck, Das can get him to Evelyn, and she... she can get him to Dorian.

Silently, Neilar prays that the shadows won't find him before this happens.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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